


here, there and everywhere

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bilbo, Obvious Thorin, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:14:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which there are debts to be repaid and adventures yet to be found.





	here, there and everywhere

Someone sits down heavily, a thud and a hard sigh of what sounds like pain next to Bilbo and Bilbo knows who it is, even if he’s trying to right his unsteadied, borrowed pipe.

Bilbo glances askance at Thorin Oakenshield, a little worse for wear, tired and clearly listing to the side to avoid putting weight on his injured torso. He isn’t looking at Bilbo, instead peering out at the camp before him, eyes skimming over the company, over Fili and Kili especially, where they soften and melt into something wounded.

A wound that only seeing these dwarves who have chosen to follow him live through this quest, live through it and flourish after it, in a mountain they will call home, will heal.

Bilbo chews on his pipe, not sure what to say. Thorin has only just apologized to him and embraced him and given Bilbo a good shakeup but they aren’t exactly… friends. Bilbo would like to be, certainly, but he isn’t sure just how far he can push after Thorin made it clear they were on steadier ground with each other. It had meant everything to Bilbo. He had indeed meant everything he told Thorin only a few hours earlier, about his wish to see them home, to see them happy. To have Thorin embrace him shortly after that was, well, unexpected but wasn’t everything since he had run out of his door?

Thorin doesn’t seem in any hurry to say anything and Bilbo would rather not rush him but he feels as if Thorin seeking out his company isn’t purely for its joys.

“Was Oin able to take some of the pain away?” he finally blurts because he is concerned and he doesn’t like the permanent grimace twisting Thorin’s lips.

Thorin smiles ruefully. “Some,” he says and sinks back into silence.

Bilbo fiddles with the pipe, eyeing the bowl with intricate carvings of words he couldn’t possibly hope to read. He’s borrowing it from Bofur who had chided Bilbo for not asking for one sooner because he’s had a spare all along. Dwarven pipe-weed doesn’t provide the smoothest smoke but it is better than nothing and Bilbo indulges himself.

He’s wishing he hadn’t now that Thorin has come and his head is a bit hazy.

“Were you able to eat any stew?” Bilbo asks mildly.

“Some,” Thorin says again, sounding oddly pained in a way that doesn’t suggest it’s from any injury Bilbo can see.

They continue to sit in an increasingly awkward silence and Bilbo begins to feel as if Thorin might be working himself up to say something more on the subject of being wrong about him and isn’t sure he can stand it. He opens his mouth to say as much but Thorin beats him to it.

“I owe you a great debt.”

“Oh… nonsense, there isn’t anything to owe,” Bilbo says hastily, waving his pipe. “Anyone would have done what I’d done, had they been able.”

“Not anyone,” Thorin says quietly. “I did not expect it from you, Master Baggins, but this is another one of my regrets. Had I simply seen your character, I would have not been surprised. I owe you another apology along with a debt.”

Bilbo feels a little hot under his collar and grimaces. “Really, Thorin, please, there’s nothing you owe me. I told you, I’m not a hero.”

“You saved the life of a king and that in itself makes you a hero,” Thorin says with an undertone of amusement. It bleeds away as he continues. “In the eyes of my people, I have greatly wronged you and I wish to correct that. I owe you a life debt and one day I will see it repaid, if I can. I will endeavor to work for it from this night forward, until my last. Should you have need of anything from me… you need only ask.”

Bilbo gapes at Thorin as he turns to look at him expectantly, as if he should have words prepared for this declaration. He opens and closes his mouth, chews on the stem of his pipe and waves it around again. “Well, I should think that would be completely unnecessary as there is _no_ debt owed and there shan’t ever be,” he says firmly.

He falters when a flicker of something close to hurt flashes in Thorin’s eyes.

“It is a custom of my people,” Thorin says just as firmly. “I will not run from it as I have in the past. Allow me this, Bilbo, so that I may step into the halls of my fathers with no burdens at my feet.”

Which is really all just very dramatic, Bilbo thinks sourly, and commences gnawing on the pipe. He squints at the other dwarves who have all started to go to sleep a bit early and wonders if they know the declarations their king is making. From Balin’s surreptitious glance over before he lies down in his bedroll, Bilbo thinks yes.

He sighs as he feels piercing blue eyes on him. “Well alright,” he concedes but turns to glare at Thorin fully. “But I’m no maid in distress which I think I’ve proven well enough so no heroics, if you don’t mind. Please and thank you,” he adds when he realizes he isn’t being particularly gracious or polite.

But Thorin merely smiles, a small thing. “No one here would mistake you for a maid in distress,” he says, low. “The opposite, though you have no fighting form to speak of.”

Bilbo turns away so he can discreetly roll his eyes. Trust in the tact of dwarves. “No, as it is, I suppose I don’t.”

“Allow us to teach you.”

He doesn’t choke on his pipe smoke but only just. “What?” Bilbo asks, aghast. Thorin looks at him seriously and Bilbo scoffs. “I’m hardly any good with a sword and I can tell you now, I won’t get any better.”

“Practical defense only, no showmanship,” Thorin says, back to amused, damn him. “You will learn as any young swordsman does. There was a day my sister-sons did not know how to swing a sword.”

“Yes but I’m sure they were quite a bit younger than I am now.”

“Nigh fifty, aye.”

“Fifty! I say, I’m only fifty now. Fifty-one in September.”

“You are but a child?”

Bilbo sends Thorin a withering look, prepared to tell him off, but there is mirth swimming in Thorin’s eyes and amusement curling his lips and, well, Bilbo likes those things very much on Thorin and only sniffs. “I suppose there is something to be said about dwarvish lifespans,” he says, putting out his pipe. “Well, I’m certainly too old to go around swinging swords so I’ll have to decline your offer.”

“It was not an offer,” Thorin says, peering at Bilbo intently. “I wish you to be able to protect yourself… your attempts last evening were…” Thorin swings his arm haphazardly and quickly stops, looking embarrassed for even trying to mimic Bilbo.

Bilbo purses his lips so he won’t smile and shrugs his shoulders. “Kept them away for the moment I needed it to, didn’t it?” he says lightly. “I… suppose I could benefit from a lesson or two.”

“Nightly, for an hour or until you tire,” Thorin says briskly. “With Dwalin.”

“Dwalin?” Bilbo squeaks a little too loudly and quickly glances around for the large lump that is Dwalin over by the fire. “But I thought you would be teaching me. Life debt and all.”

Thorin looks somewhat sheepish. “I am not as patient as Dwalin,” he says gently, which is really a marvel in itself.

Bilbo gapes at him. “I’m not delicate.”

“No,” Thorin agrees although he’s turned sour now, “I know it well. But Dwalin is the better teacher and I have been told to refrain from battle for as long as I can. I am of sound body but I would rather Oin not box my ears again.”

Bilbo had seen Thorin maced, bitten by a warg, and tossed soundly by the same creature and has his own opinions on how sound of body Thorin is but he keeps them to himself. They sit in silence although this time it’s not necessarily uncomfortable. Bilbo has more worries to contend with, mostly his new sword lessons with Dwalin and he’s still somewhat dismayed that it won’t be Thorin teaching him. He thinks that Thorin is selling himself short, as he has seen him with Fili and Kili and he can be nothing but patient when he’s explaining things to them. He wonders if Thorin thinks it’s beneath him but… that doesn’t feel quite right either.

“You begin tomorrow night,” Thorin announces and stands with considerable effort. He braces his hand on his left side and peers down at Bilbo. “I will show you what it is to be owed a debt from a dwarf.” He inclines his head and is off toward his bedroll before Bilbo can protest.

He sighs and leans back, looking up at the clear night sky and wonders, not for the first or last time, just what he has gotten himself into.

——

Lessons with Dwalin aren’t what Bilbo expected. He is certainly patient and the first few nights are dedicated to simply showing Bilbo how to properly hold a sword and how to properly swing it. Most of the other dwarves gather around to watch and while Bilbo finds this daunting at first, he comes to accept it the more he’s riled up by a certain few of the dwarves, which only makes him want to prove himself. Thorin watches from the sidelines occasionally and now and then speaks up to offer advice and is indeed as patient as Bilbo would expect, which makes it all the more frustrating to be taught by Dwalin, who is _so_ patient that Bilbo feels like biting his hand to get him to move on with the lesson.

He learns sword-theory from some of the other dwarves and quite a bit about stone and stone sense and smithing and mining from more. The dwarves seem to take him under their wing and Bilbo gets the distinct feeling that they’re trying to make an honorary dwarf out of him. Things like their language and customs are secret but when Balin has been smoking his pipe for long enough he deigns to indulge Bilbo in his questions.

Thorin is perhaps the most confusing one of all. He seeks out Bilbo’s company often now and doesn’t seem to expect conversation every time. He merely sits with Bilbo until he is able to relax and by the time Bilbo goes to sleep on those nights, he sleeps soundlessly and dreamlessly and decides not to question it.

The beginning of the gift-giving when they’re into their second night at Beorn’s is even more confusing to Bilbo. It starts with a simple pipe, long-stemmed like the one he had forgotten at home, shined beautifully with runes circling the bowl, lovely in themselves. Thorin informs Bilbo that they name him dwarf-friend and from the way he says it, Bilbo suspects he has been given a high honor.

There is the stone token after that, much like the one Kili has, and engraved on it are runes that say that he has done great deeds for the dwarves. This one flusters him far more than the pipe but Thorin looks very grave about it all and he accepts the stone with thanks and keeps it in his breast pocket for safe-keeping.

The commissioned handkerchief from Ori, who Bilbo suspects was able to find material from Beorn’s workshop, the fine leather pouch to hold his very own stock of pipe-weed, the song that he suspects was written about him, sung in low and hauntingly beautiful Khuzdul and which the dwarves simply stared at him after, the wild bouquet of flowers with wildly varying meanings that made it clear Thorin couldn’t read them but he did seem so very proud of himself for finding a gift that made Bilbo genuinely beam with pleasure… well, it was really all a bit much but Bilbo couldn’t find it within him to put a stop to it.

Thorin did seem so pleased when he handed something over and Bilbo was hard pressed to change his moods, of which good ones were few in the forest of Mirkwood and Lake-town after.

The gifts stopped but it wasn’t surprising with how little they had to claim as their own. Even after the Master of Lake-town had surprised them all with a feast and clothes and weapons, Thorin seemed too distracted by the close proximity of the mountain to remember that he was once concerned with showering Bilbo with gifts.

While he doesn’t particularly miss the gifts, he does miss Thorin’s company. The king seems quicker to temper and Bilbo begins to avoid him because Thorin tends to use Bilbo to vent his frustrations and he can hardly stand it.

They reach the mountain, they reach Smaug, and nothing goes the way they planned it. Everything is wrong and ends with fire and blood and mourning and sickness.

Thorin disappears into the treasury and never comes back out and Bilbo finds a shining stone and decides he will live up to his title and burgles it away. Perhaps Thorin will never smile at him again, never offer to walk with him or give him flowers or even speak to him, but Bilbo must save his life.

The war nearly takes Thorin Oakenshield and Fili and Kili but they survive and begin to heal and Bilbo is so thankful that for the first time in a very long while, he weeps and weeps until a red-haired elf finds him and kindly asks for Bilbo to see Thorin, who is requesting his presence.

It is one of the hardest things he has ever had to do, he thinks, simply pulling back the tent flap but he enters the brightly lit sick tent and his eyes fall on the bed in the middle of the room. It is more than a simple cot for more than a simple king but it makes Thorin look smaller and paler against the white sheets.

He looks as if he’s lost quite a lot of blood based on his pallor and Bilbo swallows down vomit in his throat as he approaches. Thorin’s eyes are open and alert but he is breathing shallowly and looks so close to death that Bilbo feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes again.

“Bilbo. My Bilbo,” Thorin whispers, for indeed they had grown close, but Bilbo is still unsure of his welcome.

There have been many hurts between them in such a short while.

“Thorin,” he manages to choke out, coming to stand by his bedside. He sniffs and wipes his nose. “Should you be without a healer?”

“They have done all they can,” Thorin says weakly and smiles when Bilbo sniffles again. “They expect I’ll live but it was a close thing.” He closes his eyes against a wave of pain and when he opens them again, they look desperate. “Bilbo,” he breathes. “I owe you now more than I fear I will ever be able to repay.”

“Oh, please, Thorin,” Bilbo says, close to begging, “don’t start that again. You hardly owe me anything.”  
  
“I do, Bilbo. I owe you everything,” Thorin says, staring intently. “Should you have any wish that I can grant… the ills that I have done you in these last weeks alone… I will do everything in my power to give you what you deserve.”

Bilbo sighs and scrubs his hand over his forehead. Thorin seems ever so sincere but Bilbo doesn’t want anything from him but he is afraid to argue much when Thorin is as weak as he is. Still, he shakes his head.

“Thorin,” he says, “all I want is to go home. The most you can grant me is well wishes when I do set off. That’s all I could ask for.” When Thorin’s face falls almost imperceptibly, Bilbo hastens to say, “I will be staying for some time, until you and the boys are on your feet again, perhaps. But I must be off before the snows begin to fall.”

Thorin says nothing for a time, simply stares at Bilbo imploringly, as if he is trying to find something.

“If you are not in the mountain… how can I repay you?” he asks, almost as if he is asking himself.

“I suppose you’ll simply have to write me kindly worded letters,” Bilbo says with a fleeting smile. “I imagine I could do with a few of those when I’m home.”

Thorin gazes at Bilbo, eyes sad and visibly losing energy, his hand falling weakly to his side. “Aye, it would be an honor to keep our friendship,” he says, more of a whisper. “You do me a great privilege again, Bilbo Baggins. Had I lost what we have grown together over these months…”

“Well you haven’t,” Bilbo says with as much conviction as he can muster, his throat aching, “you haven’t, Thorin, because I consider you one of my greatest friends. That’s enough for me.”

He realizes with a pang when he says it that it’s not nearly enough and could never hope to be… they are simply too different people to entertain the thought.  
  
Brushing that quickly aside, Bilbo focuses on the tears glistening in Thorin’s eyes and tells himself it’s the pain and nothing else.

“To be your greatest friend is my greatest honor,” Thorin says, smiling faintly, his eyes half-closed. “Someday, Bilbo Baggins… someday I will see the debt repaid.”

Bilbo sighs but he knows there’s no dissuading a dwarf once they get their hearts and minds set on something. He merely pats Thorin’s cold arm and watches as he drifts to sleep. There is no choice based on how weak he is and how little milk of poppy remains on the small table in the corner of the tent. Bilbo lets himself look at Thorin, at his strong brow, his regally sharp nose, his thin lips and thick beard. He is otherworldly to Bilbo who is used to much cleaner, rounder faces even after all this time. Thorin is beautiful in a way that Bilbo never expected and he refuses to believe that he will not one day be as strong and stubborn as he always has been again.

Thorin Oakenshield will heal and go on to do great deeds as king, even if Bilbo has to write him strongly worded letters to get it done.

——

The first two days are the most worrisome for all of the Durins but they manage to pull through and once they are not in imminent danger of having their insides spilling forth, Oin gets them on their feet for very short walks, which he says helps the blood circulation. Bilbo is inclined to believe him, no matter how much it hurts him to see the pain so evident on Thorin’s face. He tries to hide it but Bilbo knows him far too well now to not see the signs.

They’re moved to the mountain after another two weeks, when they are able to ride in a cart that takes them off the battlefield. From there Thorin is whisked away to begin his kingly duties, Fili and Kili with him, and Bilbo is left taking care of more minor messes, such as getting the forges working and seeing to it that the kitchens are cleaned from top to bottom, ready to feed a mountain full of Dain’s dwarves and the company.

He doesn’t see much of Dain but that suits him just fine. He is a fine dwarf, Bilbo is sure, but he’d rather stay out of politics, no matter what Balin has to say about him joining the council.

It’s not that he didn’t expect it but the way the dwarves try to subtly (and not so, in some cases) con him into staying longer in the mountain is exhausting. He’s already sent letters home telling the mayor and his neighbors that he will be there before spring and of course that he is not dead to begin with.

When he refuses all attempts made by the dwarves they simply begin to beg him not to go, often muttering about how Thorin wishes him to stay, although he’s never uttered a word of that to Bilbo.

In fact, Bilbo would have to say that Thorin is the most supportive of him reaching the Shire once again, no matter what that does to his aching heart.

They finally have a night to spare to themselves after they feast with the company and share a smoke out on the ramparts, far away from the middle of them. Thorin asks Bilbo questions about his return journey, about his homeland and what he expects to be waiting for him, offers to send a cart full of treasure, which Bilbo vehemently forbids. Thorin mumbles something about debts to be repaid but Bilbo pointedly doesn’t listen.  
  
After assuring Thorin that he’ll be perfectly alright after so many months on the road, they simply smoke in silence, getting on more steady, familiar ground with each other, where there is no need for apologies or declarations. Each other’s company is more than enough.

It begins to get dangerously close to the first snowfalls and Bilbo knows he must begin to head west to avoid them. He contacts Gandalf, who had informed Bilbo he was to be in Mirkwood for a month, and tells him that he is ready to be escorted home.

Gandalf arrives two days later and helps Bilbo pack, saying nothing about his somber mood.

He had informed the company that he was leaving and their morose expressions (and tears in some cases) have left him feeling terribly upset. He thinks it’s hardly fair, as they’ve fought so hard to get back Erebor and now the dwarves don’t want to see him return to his own home.

But he must go back to the Shire. There is nothing but pain and too fleeting glances here for him.

Bilbo secures his pack and follows Gandalf through the mountain, heading for the gates, and tries his very best to hold in his own tears.

They are nearly to the gates when they pass by a room from which a gruff, “Burglar,” is called.

Bilbo eyes the open doorway apprehensively and turns to Gandalf. “A moment, please.”

“I will wait on the bridge for you. I daresay there will be company waiting with me,” Gandalf says, a twinkle in his eye, and departs.

Bilbo hitches his pack up on his shoulder and wanders into the room which looks like barracks for soldiers although all cots have been pushed to the back of the room, moth eaten and needing replacing. Dwalin is the only one in the room, standing directly in the center of it, a sword in his hand.

It’s a bit of an ominous scene and Bilbo decides staying by the door is his safest route. “Yes, hello,” he says, eyeing the sword. It’s not one of Dwalin’s axes but similar to the sword he used to train Bilbo.

“Time for yer last lesson,” Dwalin says, lifting a hand and beckoning Bilbo closer.

“Lesson!” Bilbo says with a scoff. “Dwalin, Gandalf is waiting for me to go back to the Shire. I think you’ve taught me as much as either of us could hope for.”

“Aye and I’m here to see that it hasn’t all oozed back out of yer ears,” Dwalin says, impatiently waving Bilbo closer. “Get over here. It’s a short lesson.”

Bilbo sighs, resigning himself to his fate, deciding that arguing won’t likely do him any good. Not with Dwalin, which he had learned over his sword lessons during the journey. He shoulders off his pack and leans it against the doorway, sliding Sting out of his belt and moving to the center of the room.

Dwalin raises his sword, holding it out in front of him and cocks an eyebrow at Bilbo’s feet.

He corrects them with exaggerated slowness but Dwalin merely snorts and then they’re off. It’s faster paced than Bilbo remembers it seeing as how they hadn’t had time for sword lessons once they got to Mirkwood, so it’s been a while.

Dwalin whacks the broad side of his sword against Bilbo’s thighs, likely leaving bruises, and Bilbo retaliates with a harsh jab of his sword that gets blocked either way.

They dance together, feet moving swiftly over the stone ground, parrying and blocking and grunting as they go, although it’s very clear Dwalin is still holding back the vast majority of his strength. It’s not insulting but it is disappointing to know he’ll never have strength on his side, only his quick thinking.

Their swords slide together, locking at the hilt, and Dwalin peers down at Bilbo with narrowed eyes.

“He’s goin’ to do somethin’ dramatic.”

Bilbo falters, which is all Dwalin needs to knock his feet out from under him and, scowling, he stands swiftly back up and raises his sword. “Who?”

“Ye know who.”

Bilbo huffs and charges Dwalin, who simply sidesteps him and offers another whack of his sword to his backend, murmuring a _you’re better than that._

“Well excuse me,” Bilbo snaps, brandishing Sting, giving the sword a vicious swipe when he comes within reach of Dwalin. “Why on earth do you think he’s going to do something dramatic? What for?”

“He’s always been dramatic around… people,” Dwalin says, his lip curling, as if conversing with another person is beneath him, “but he’s got somethin’ stuck in his head. I can see him thinkin’ too hard lately. Makin’ him more of a prick than ever.”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, taking a break, breathing in deeply, eyeing Dwalin for any sudden movements. “Yes, well. He’s gotten it into his head that he owes me a life debt and has to repay me at all costs. I think I’m going to have half a mountain of treasure delivered to my home once I’ve gotten there since I refused to take it with me now.”

Dwalin eyes him in return. “To be owed a life debt is no small business, burglar.”

“I’ve come to realize that, you know,” Bilbo says dryly. “Since he hasn’t stopped talking about it since the Carrock.”

“Thorin Oakenshield keeps his word.”

“I’ve come to realize that too, yes. As I’ll likely never need saving again, however, he is not likely to ever repay his debt in the way he wants to. I told him that simply writing me will be enough.”

“Won’t be.”

“Won’t be what? Enough?”

“Not for him.”

Bilbo scowls, brushing a bit of sweat off his brow. “He’ll simply have to learn to live with it. Perhaps you can try and convince him it’s enough.”

Dwalin merely glares, as if he is thinking very hard about something, and leaves Bilbo to clean up after himself, apparently satisfied with their lessons for now.

“He’s plannin’ somethin’,” he finally utters, his grip tightening on his sword.

Bilbo warily eyes his squeezing fingers. “Let’s hope it’s nothing so drastic then. But he is a fairly reasonable dwarf. I’m sure you and Balin and… all the others will talk some sense into him.”

Dwalin looks doubtful but he shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time where yer concerned,” he mumbles, sheathing the sword. “Well, I’ve taught ye enough to get ye back to the Shire in one piece. Unless yer unlucky, as some are.”

“I’ve had rather good luck despite everything that went wrong over these last eight months,” Bilbo says with a wry smile. “Perhaps I’ll be lucky for a couple more. Now, I should think I’ve made Gandalf wait long enough for me. Soon enough and he’ll leave without me!”

“And whatever would we do with ye then,” Dwalin says with a heavy dose of sarcasm, following Bilbo to his pack.

“Deal with a very miserable hobbit all winter,” Bilbo says, smiling, and puts Sting away, slinging his pack over his back.

They leave the barracks and make their way to the gates. The stones that had made makeshift doors are gone now and there are some of Dain’s soldiers measuring the distance between the walls to make new gates. Just outside and on the bridge waits Gandalf and the rest of the company, Fili still on crutches with his splinted leg.

They all look magnificent gleaming in the early winter light, wearing their very best to see him off, weapons strapped to their sides, almost as if they planned on accompanying him.

Thorin looks the most magnificent of them all in his obsidian coat, lined with wolf fur, whites and tans and greys flowing seamlessly together. His hair is braided back into a low ponytail to fight the mountain winds and he is smiling gently at Bilbo even though he looks uncommonly sad.

“Well. Hello,” Bilbo says, suddenly a bit overwhelmed. Saying goodbye is never easy and never fair, no, but he knows it must be done. “I suppose I’m off on another journey.”

There are some chuckles and smiles to go around, all fond, but none as fond as the one Thorin grants him.

“You have all been the most wonderful companions I could have ever hoped for. I’ve learned valuable things from all of you and… and well, I just thought you should know how much your company has meant to me,” Bilbo says, a frog in his throat. He clears it, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, and Gandalf’s hand squeezes his shoulder. He smiles up at him and turns back to the company again. “Thank you all for being my very dear friends. I will be glad to write to you.”

“Aye, ye better!” Bofur cries and it is quite like a dam breaking.

Bilbo is swarmed by all the dwarves not grievously injured just a month ago and hugs whoever he can get his hands on, laughing and sniffing and being pat on the back hard enough that his knees nearly come out from under him.

Once they have let him breathe, he gives Fili and Kili long hugs, murmuring how proud he is of both of them and telling them to take care of their stubborn uncle, which gets watery laughs out of both of them.

“We’ll visit you properly one day, Bilbo,” Kili says, wiping his nose. “Have all seven meals the way hobbits do.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Just be sure to write me first so I can prepare my pantry,” he says, smiling, his chest tight. “Tea is at four and… you are always welcome.” He looks at them each in turn.

He is going to miss these dwarves perhaps more than he could have ever expected.

Looking at Thorin, Bilbo feels the ache within him swell to an almost unbearable size but he smiles and pushes it aside when he says his goodbyes. Thorin clasps Bilbo’s forearm and stares down at him with an unreadable look to his eyes but they are suspiciously wet.

“I will see you again, Master Baggins,” Thorin promises in his low, deep voice, words only meant for him.

“I would like that,” Bilbo says sincerely. Once his heart has had time to heal anyway. “Goodbye, Thorin.”

“Goodbye, my Bilbo.”

Bilbo bites his lip so he won’t begin to cry and meets Gandalf by his horse and Bilbo’s pony. He mounts the pony with surprisingly little effort and waves at his companions and without further ado, he and Gandalf begin to ride toward Dale.  
  
——

The journey back home almost makes traveling across Middle Earth seem pleasant. There are no orcs, no wargs, no spiders among dark, diseased trees, no stone giants or odd creatures lurking in the gloom. It’s bitterly cold and they run into a snowstorm occasionally but as they venture further west the weather warms and it does not seem so bleak at night anymore. The stars shine brightly overhead and Bilbo notes the constellations the dwarves had shown him on their journey, much different than the ones he knew growing up.

He misses his friends fiercely with each passing day, perhaps more than he thought possible. They were his closest companions which he shared everything with. He’d learned that propriety wasn’t necessary on the road with them and had opened up far more with a ragged group of dwarves than he had anyone else at home.

Gandalf occasionally questions Bilbo on why he didn’t stay in the mountain and Bilbo doesn’t know how to tell him the thought of trading loneliness in the Shire for loneliness in the mountain was unbearable. He would have been close to his friends, yes, but there was something more his heart ached for but he knew it could never be and desperately didn’t want to tempt himself.

It’s better if those things are left unsaid.

Eventually the landscape turn from rolling mountains into long, golden valleys and beyond one last green forest, rolling hills are laid before them. Gandalf leaves Bilbo with an ominous word or two, flustering him, but he makes his way home by himself nevertheless.

He makes quite a spectacle traipsing through Hobbiton midmorning through the crowd at the market and hobbits working in the fields or their gardens. They point and whisper, some daring to march right up to him, demanding to know how he has the gall to be alive and Bilbo fends them off with laughter and a few sharply made remarks here and there. They finally let him be when he arrives at Bag End.

Home looks much the same as it always has except perhaps for a few layers of dust and moldy cheese in the pantry.

Bilbo sits in his armchair and allows the last ten months to wash over him. It all feels a bit like a dream, that comes in washed out colors or brightly vivid images, clenching his heart and making his stomach roil viciously. Bilbo endures it all, knows he has to at least this once before things can go back to normal, and only sheds a few tears when he thinks of his friends… of Thorin.

The first few days are the hardest, cleaning up his smial and answering the door a few too many times. Most of his neighbors and family want to know just where it was that he had run off to but they don’t much like the answer when Bilbo gives it honestly. He decides after some time to ignore the knocking and gets on with his business. His properties need more tending than usual and over the weeks he grows very busy which suits him rather well.

The garden has remained in a fine state thanks to Hamfast Gamgee’s diligence and Bilbo bakes him and his family numerous pies to thank them. He takes over the pruning and lets the lazy days of an early Shire spring consume him.

There are many letters between him and his dwarf friends and Bilbo is glad to keep in contact with them, no matter how much it makes his heart hurt to know he is so far away.

They tell him of their lives, of what they do in the mountain, of the mischief some of them get up to or the strides some of them take to restore the mountain to its former glory. He is very proud of them and lets each of them know in turn, especially Fili and Kili, who take to their princely duties well with their mother, Dis, and uncle’s guidance.

Spring turns into summer and the rolling green hills of the Shire are dotted with brightly colored flowers, marigolds and pineapple lilies and sunflowers as large and bright as any prized china set.

It smells wonderful, full of baking bread and wet grass and clear air and Bilbo lets the familiarity of it soothe his soul.

Home.

This is where he belongs, whatever his late night thoughts have to say about the matter.

Bilbo wakes late one blissfully warm morning and takes first and second breakfast together. He will need the energy if he is to face the market although he hopes it is a bit less busy now that he’s missed the early morning crowd.

He takes his basket and leaves Bag End with a bit of a spring in his step, heading down to the market field and greeting his neighbors and friends as he goes.

“Good morning, Mister Bilbo!” Hamfast cheers when he sees Bilbo near his wife Bell’s baking cart. “We have your favorite mince pies today if you’d like to have one!”

Bilbo pats his belly, wondering if it can take much more food, but the pies smell delicious, wafting the scent of golden brown crust and the juicy, meaty morsels within.

“Oh, I suppose I’ll simply have to,” Bilbo says, taking out a copper and flipping it to Hamfast. He takes the warm pie and bites into it, humming in delight. “Oh yes, as wonderful as always, my dear Bell. I don’t know how you do it.”

Bell laughs. “When you trade me that blackberry pie recipe of yours, I’ll trade you mine,” she says with a wink.

Bilbo flaps his hand. “I suppose I’ll have to wait until next market day,” he says, as he always does, and smiles when his neighbors chuckle.

“You’re looking a bit more filled in, Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast notes, puffing on his pipe, his thumb looped in his suspenders. “About time too! We thought you looked a bit underfed after all your time with those dwarves of yours.”

“Well, I could hardly eat seven meals a day on the road, could I?” Bilbo says mildly, although he is pleased himself that his clothes no longer hang so drably off of his skin. “I suppose I’ve been enjoying the luxuries of home over these last few months. It’s good to cook for myself again.”

“You deserve it after all of your adventuring! Good Mister Bungo would have been beside himself to see you so thin. How are your tomatoes?”

Trust in Hamfast to get to the important questions, Bilbo thinks, smiling to himself. “They’re very fine. I daresay they’ll be this year’s winner again. Perhaps along with my blackberry pie,” he says slyly with a glance to Bell, who seems busy with selling loaves of bread to the Bracegirdles.

“One day, Bilbo Baggins, one day,” she says out of the corner of her mouth.

Bilbo chuckles. “One day,” he agrees, finishing off his mince pie. He thanks the Gamgees again and wanders off to begin his real perusing.

He inspects carts loaded with summer squashes and melons, others full of the finest cuts of meat, steak and pork and whole chickens still ripe for the picking. He buys what he needs to last him a few days, thinking of the savory chicken pot pie he will make tonight, and is all in all very busy with his shopping, not hearing the whispers until the last moment.

“How much for those brass buttons?” he asks Lily Smallburrow at her button and buckle cart, looking over a pair of buttons that are designed like oak leaves. They are strikingly lovely and he decides he simply must have them.

Lily doesn’t answer and after a short time of admiring the buttons, he looks up at her, blinking at her slack-jawed expression. She is looking somewhere behind him and he notices that most hobbits around are looking in the same direction, whispering amongst themselves, and feels his heart begin to beat frantically for a reason he can’t explain.

Bilbo turns around and comes face to face with a dwarf who is standing but a few feet behind him.

The dwarf is dressed in regal traveling clothes, dark leather mail over bright red cloth, donning a familiar furred coat, which looks beautiful in the summer sun, the fur glistening and shining, waving lightly in a breeze. The dwarf’s flowing black hair, streaked with silver, is tumbling over broad shoulders, only lightly braided, although the beard looks as if it has grown some.

Bilbo gapes at Thorin Oakenshield, his mouth hanging wide open, and feels as if he has wandered into a dream. Thorin Oakenshield cannot be in the Shire, cannot be so far from Erebor, cannot be in the marketplace, cannot, cannot…

“Bilbo,” Thorin utters, low. “Forgive my late arrival.”

That seems to kickstart his brain some and Bilbo gulps, glancing around at his neighbors as they all stare. “Erm… late arrival? Was I… was I supposed to be expecting you?” he asks, his voice perhaps a bit higher in pitch than normal.

“Perhaps not,” Thorin concedes, looking very grave. “But I would have liked to reach the Shire earlier than this.” He takes in a deep breath and suddenly kneels down on one knee, bending his head low in a bow. “Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, I, Thorin II Oakenshield, pledge myself to thee, in service of the life debt owed.”

There is much more rumbling and whispers to go about now but Bilbo hardly hears it. He continues to gawp at Thorin, taken aback, wondering if perhaps he is still asleep in bed. But no… there is sweat tickling the back of his neck and he is never so uncomfortably… aware in his dreams.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, strained, “please, get up. I’ve told you! There is no debt owed!”

Thorin remains kneeling. “And I have told you there is. It is time I begin to do what I must to repay it,” he says in that grave manner of his.

Bilbo frets, trying not to drop his shopping and Thorin must notice because suddenly he stands and sweeps the basket straight out of Bilbo’s arms.

“I can carry that,” Bilbo says hurriedly, reaching to take it back but Thorin swings it out of his reach. Scowling, Bilbo plucks at his suspenders and bounces on his toes, becoming alarmingly aware of the stares around them. “Fine but we have much, much, much to discuss,” he hisses, turning on his heel and marching away.

The entirety of the market watches as Mister Bilbo and one of his dwarves heads back to Bag End, wondering what great deeds their fellow hobbit had done for a mighty dwarf like that to be indebted to him.  
  
Bilbo hurriedly stomps through the market and up the hill with Thorin on his heels, feeling odd to not be carrying his groceries but even odder at the idea of who is at his back.

Thorin Oakenshield, in the Shire. It’s not something he’ll be wrapping his head around anytime soon. Especially not with pledges of service to go around either. Whatever Thorin has gotten into his head, Bilbo is going to be sure to stamp it out. Thorin has a mountain to return to, his kingly duties, and has no time to harass a simple gentlehobbit from the west. Even one that has missed him terribly and feels his heart thundering erratically the closer they get to Bag End.

Bilbo pauses at the gate, looking at the smial and glances back at Thorin. “Am I… expecting anyone else?” he asks hesitantly, dreading the answer.

“No,” Thorin says quickly, perhaps seeing the benefit of it, looking ever so odd holding a basket. “It was only I that made the journey.”

“Oh… good,” Bilbo breathes, even if some part of him is disappointed he won’t be seeing any of his friends. Not that his pantry will complain.

He catches Hamfast down the way peering over his roses and clears his throat, gesturing for Thorin to follow. They enter Bag End and when Bilbo closes the door, he feels as if he is sealing some fate he had no part in naming. He wrings his hands together, looking at Thorin, who is much too big for a smial in Hobbiton. Much too grand with too much splendor about him, making everything else look small and meager.

Bag End is hardly small nor meager and Bilbo feels disgruntled.

“Tea?”

Thorin nods. “Please. It has been a long journey.”

Bilbo eyes him curiously. He carries no pack with him which is somewhat confusing in itself.

“Perhaps an ale then,” he says, politeness worming its way into the conversation, even if Bilbo is feeling anything but polite.

Thorin’s shoulders slump in relief and he inclines his head. “If it is no bother,” he says quietly, equally polite.

They go into the kitchen, putting away the groceries, and Bilbo gets Thorin settled at the table. The last time he was here he sat at the head of the dining table and had looked very leader-like and impressive but this is a small table, hardly meant for four, and Thorin looks the king that he is and like he doesn’t fit. Perhaps it’s the coat which must be sweltering in the kind of heat of the day they’re experiencing.

Bilbo wipes sweat off his own brow, suspecting it’s _not_ the heat of the day, and goes to his pantry to pour an ale for his guest. He gives it to Thorin and busies himself with making tea and setting out a plate of scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam.

He sits at the table with Thorin and they eat scones and drink from their respective glasses, catching each other’s eye and swiftly averting their gazes each time. It’s getting stifling in its awkwardness and once Bilbo has the last bite of scone in his mouth, he cannot stand it anymore.

“What were you thinking?” he demands, crumbs falling to the table, hardly the best manners but he can’t be bothered with that. “In the middle of the market no less!”

Thorin’s own last bite of scone is hovering at his mouth and he slowly sets it back down on the minuscule plate. “A declaration is better made in front of witnesses,” he mumbles, looking contrite. “Forgive me, I did not know it would upset you.”

“Upset me! I’m hardly upset at all,” Bilbo says, frightfully upset. He takes a gulp of his tea and gestures vaguely around the kitchen to somehow encompass all of the Shire. “They’ll be talking about it for weeks and my reputation has only just begun to repair itself after our… our quest. When they find out you’re a king, well…!” He laughs dryly to say what he thinks about that.

Thorin seems confused. “They will be bothered that I am a king?”

“We don’t have kings and queens and royalty in the Shire,” Bilbo says flatly. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

“Aye,” Thorin says, picking at the edge of his napkin. “It seems I have made more than one blunder.”

Bilbo feels his heart ache because Thorin sounds genuinely displeased with himself and he certainly didn’t know better beyond what common sense he should have had, and even Bilbo has lacked in common sense before. “Well…” he says, shrugging. “You couldn’t have known, I suppose. Just please don’t make any more grand declarations around my neighbors.”

Thorin inclines his head. “I meant it,” he says after a while. “I have pledged my service to you to repay my debt. I will do your bidding.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, rubbing his eyes. “For the last time, there is no debt owed. I did what I did on the quest because it was right, not because I wished to have you owe me anything. Surely you owe a debt to everyone involved.”

“Most have accepted payment or places in my council,” Thorin grouses, glaring momentarily at Bilbo as if to say, _why couldn’t you have cooperated and done the same?_

Bilbo huffs. “So if I had accepted your cart of treasure I would be left in peace right now?”

Thorin shifts lightly. “…no,” he finally says, his brow furrowed. “You would have sacrificed yourself that night and many others had we not been so lucky.”

“So you owe me more, is that what you’re saying?”

Thorin nods, relaxing. “Aye. I have brought you a gift.”

Bilbo would groan if he wasn’t sure it would upset Thorin. He’s had enough gifts to last him a lifetime, no matter how nice they had been. He still carries around the token made of granite but decides not to tell Thorin this.

“Please, Thorin,” he pleads anyway, “you truly do not have to give me anything more. You’ve given me quite enough.”

“Allow me this, Bilbo, so I may ease my mind,” Thorin says. “I have wanted you to have this for a long time but you were gone from Erebor by the time I found it and I did not trust that it would make it here if I sent it.”

He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small wooden box, dark in color and shined beautifully, with runes running around the lid. The corners of the box have clawed feet made of some pearly white metal Bilbo thinks might be mithril. Thorin hands it over slowly, almost as if he is afraid.

Not any more than Bilbo. He takes it just as slowly and holds his breath as he opens the box. Inside sits a ring. It is made of the same shining white metal, twisting in sharp angles almost like a metal branch, holding a green stone interlaced with white streaks the size of his thumbnail, cut into an oval shape. It is not ostentatious nor is it too large but it is grand and absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous, even to Bilbo’s untrained eye.

“Oh,” he breathes, taking up the ring and holding it up toward the window’s light. The stone sparkles and shines and Bilbo reverently brushes his thumb along its smooth surface. “It’s lovely, Thorin.”

“It was my grandmother’s,” Thorin says, his eyes suspiciously bright. “I thought it would be better appreciated in your hands than in a drawer in my rooms.”

Bilbo is a bit overwhelmed. He is afraid to put on the ring for reasons he can’t quite comprehend. It feels like sealing another fate, one of which he absolutely must stay away from, even if he doesn’t know what it is. He sets the ring gently back in the box but leaves it open so he can admire it still.

“I’ll, ah… I’ll take good care of it, Thorin. Thank you very much,” he says, his throat dry. He takes a sip of tea. “Are you sure there is no else it might be better suited for however? Surely your grandmother’s ring carries quite a lot of meaning… here, in the Shire, such rings are often given in courtship.”

Thorin’s cheeks suddenly look pink and Bilbo eyes his open window, wishing for a breeze. “There are no others I would give this ring to,” he says softly. “Only you.”

Bilbo’s heart thuds deeply in his chest and his fingertips feel tingly. Thorin doesn’t mean it in that way, surely, or else he would say so and dwarves are so very different from hobbits anyway… this is simply a fine gift for a friend and he will do as he said and take special care of it.

“Oh,” he peeps, nodding. “Well, thank you again.” He’ll simply have to find a present to give Thorin before he goes back to Erebor. “Erm… how long are you staying in the Shire?”

Thorin doesn’t say anything for a moment, eyeing the plate of scones. “For some time,” he eventually settles on. “If I am to repay my debt.”

Bilbo sighs but doesn’t see the point in arguing. “I’m afraid the spare room will need airing out and that might take a while, given the heat, but I think it’ll be alright.”

Thorin looks taken aback. “I would not presume to stay in your home,” he says. “I have paid for the first few nights in the Green Dragon Inn.”

Bilbo doesn’t know why but his heart drops into the pit of his stomach and he swallows down his disappointment. “Oh,” he says, nodding. “Yes, a very fine place, that, but, erm… well, I wouldn’t mind at all if you were to be my guest. I quite like guests and it has been… a long while since I had any. So if you’d like to come here… after a few nights… I can have the spare room ready.”

He’s nervous as he says it but Thorin smiles for the first time since he arrived, a small thing but fond nonetheless.

“If it is not too much trouble, I would be glad to stay with you. Better to be on hand than not.”

“On… on hand?”

“Should you require my services.”

Bilbo shifts uncomfortably, thinking of all the ways Thorin could mean that and what they would entail. “I might require you to peel some potatoes now and then and perhaps help in the garden, but I can think of no way I’ll need your services, Thorin. Simply having a friend around would benefit me greatly.”

Thorin smiles again, like he thinks Bilbo is being purposefully obtuse and will humor him for now. “If that is your wish,” he says, bowing his head.

Bilbo squints at him, grabbing another scone and piling jam and cream on top of it. He takes a bite, munching, and eyes Thorin still. He has a feeling that, whatever Thorin has planned, very little good will come of it.  
  
——

The rest of the day is spent in each other’s company, discussing Thorin’s journey there, which thankfully went well, and how their respective lives have gone since last November. It all seems very busy in the mountain, restoring Erebor to its former splendor and ensuring that his people are well fed and taken care of. But Thorin seems to take to his grander duties well and doesn’t sound overwhelmed or too exhausted by it all. He seems glad to have come to the Shire but Bilbo suspects that has more to do with his debt than getting away from his duties.

They eat dinner together, Bilbo’s chicken pot pie, and conversation becomes relatively easy. There are no more gifts exchanged and Thorin doesn’t mention his debt again that evening to Bilbo’s distinct pleasure. They say good night and promise to see each other the next day and by the time Bilbo lies in bed that night, he isn’t sure if it actually happened or not. Only looking at the ring on his bureau convinces him that Thorin’s presence had not been a fabrication of his lonely mind.

Bilbo doesn’t see Thorin at breakfast nor second breakfast and does his best to convince himself that he doesn’t need to see Thorin at every waking moment of the day. He simply tends to his garden, ensuring his prized tomatoes are doing well, and plants marigolds underneath the kitchen window.

“I say Mister Bilbo!” Hamfast pants, coming up the lane, bypassing any greeting at all in favor of gossip, “did that dwarf really pledge you his service yesterday in the market? Left us all in a right confused state!”

“Good afternoon, Hamfast,” Bilbo sighs, sitting back on his heels, eyeing his neighbor with curiosity. He’s not a bad sort, not at all, one of the very best, actually, and Bilbo knows he means no harm by his questions. He’d likely be curious himself had he seen what they had at the market. “I’m afraid he did. A bit silly in my opinion.”

“He seemed very serious about it all,” Hamfast says, his tone suggesting dwarves have no business being so serious. “You must have done him a great honor.”

“Only what anyone else in my position would have done,” Bilbo mutters, stabbing the soil with his trowel. “He’s taken this all too literally but I’m afraid there is no stopping a dwarf once they’ve gotten something in their heads. Very stubborn lot.”

“Aye, aye,” Hamfast says, plucking his suspenders and gazing off in the direction of the Green Dragon. “Bit like you.”

Bilbo scoffs. “I’m hardly stubborn. Only… set in my ways, I suppose.”

“If you were _set in your ways,_ you never would have run off, would you?” Hamfast says, glancing at Bilbo with a fond smile. “I’m sure you made Miss Belladonna very proud, you did. She woulda enjoyed having a dwarf around Bag End, talkin’ about debts owed and other such nonsense.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo hums in amusement, wiping a trickle of sweat off of the side of his neck. “I suppose she would have rather enjoyed it all. She would have liked Thorin,” he says, more to himself, a familiar ache constricting his heart.

“That she would have. He makes a fine figure, don’t he?” Hamfast says, inclining his head down the lane.

All at once the pain ebbs from his heart and it makes a little leap of excitement as he raises himself to his knees, looking over his fence and down the lane.

Indeed, Thorin is walking toward Bag End, something held in his hands although he’s too far away to make out what it is.

Hamfast peers between them, arching his eyebrows and nodding gravely as if he’s come to a deeper understanding. “Well, I’m off. Be sure to bid your fellow a hello from me,” he says, tipping his hat and wandering off back down the hill toward his smial.

Bilbo quickly stands, brushing the soil from his trousers and knees and trying to tame his hair. Giving it up as a lost cause, he watches as Thorin crests the hill and wanders up to his gate, smiling broadly when he catches sight of Bilbo.

“Good afternoon, Bilbo,” he says, entering the garden after a wave of welcome. “I had hoped you were home.”

“Well, I can think of no other place to be on this fine Sterday afternoon,” Bilbo says with a smile of his own, looking at the brown package tied with butcher’s string in Thorin’s hands.

“Ah,” Thorin says, catching his eye. “I wondered if I may make you dinner tonight.”

Bilbo gapes. “Dinner?” he asks, momentarily lost. To offer to make someone a meal so soon after giving a grandmother’s ring… but no, Thorin is hardly a hobbit and wouldn’t know their ways. He shakes off his shock. “Erm… can you?”

Thorin holds his chin up a bit higher. “I excel at pork butt,” he says with conviction.

Bilbo stifles a laugh, chewing on his knuckle, and nods. “Well then, how can I say no? I’d love if you made dinner. It’s been many years since someone other than myself cooked in my kitchen. I can, erm… offer help, if you’d need it.”

Bilbo had heard stories from Fili and Kili about how very miserable Thorin was in a kitchen and how he mostly left that up to better dwarves than he and he’s a bit apprehensive about how well Thorin can actually handle pork butt. Perhaps he’s had a bit of practice but why he would take an interest in learning to cook when he is a king past middle age, well, Bilbo can only speculate.

“You are the better cook but I would like to do this for you,” Thorin says sincerely.

“Alright,” Bilbo says with a chuckle. “Perhaps I’ll bake a pie for dessert.”

“Blackberry?”

“So you remember me rambling about what pies I missed baking most?” Bilbo asks with a smile, feeling incredibly light on his feet. “Yes, blackberry.”

“I remember you complaining,” Thorin says with a bit of a smirk. “May I put this in your cold box?” He holds up the package.

“Oh, right, I suppose we should do that,” Bilbo says, leaving his garden and wandering inside with Thorin.

They put the butt away and enjoy a pot of freshly brewed chamomile tea with honey biscuits. Thorin doesn’t seem in a hurry to go anywhere else and Bilbo feels as if he would like to keep his company to himself for now anyway. Surely if Thorin stays for at least a week or two he will be invited to tea by the most nosey Hobbiton has to offer and although Bilbo is sure he would survive well enough, he’d rather it not happen yet.

After tea they go back into the garden before it properly gets to midday and Thorin helps Bilbo plant the rest of the marigolds, mostly by being incredibly gentle in laying the flowers in the cool soil and patting each one in turn, as if this will help them grow.

Maybe it will.

The rest of the day is spent indoors attempting to cool off despite the heat of the oven when Bilbo bakes, enjoying each other’s company and swapping stories they never really had the time for in the mountain. Bilbo shows Thorin his library and argues the merits of having books in Sindarin and lets Thorin borrow a fairytale for nightly reading, all in all enjoying himself very much.

Dinner is a rather splendid affair. Thorin does indeed seem to know his way around a pork butt, seasoning it with spices from Erebor and searing it just right, leaving it in a pot with root vegetables such as carrots, onions, and potatoes and broth to cook the meat until tender. It seems to be a perfectly dwarvish meal and Bilbo is glad to let him occupy the kitchen, admiring the sight of such a kingly figure in simple, soft clothing doing something as common as cooking.

When their meals are served, Bilbo is pleasantly surprised at how soft the meat is, at how delicious and enticing the spices are, and how Thorin seemed so confident in all of it. They dine and make merry, enjoying a bottle of wine and generous slices of blackberry pie with more clotted cream. Thorin even finds room for a second slice although he groans in agony once he’s finished.

Bilbo laughs. “What meal should I expect next?” he asks cheerfully, sipping the last of his wine, his cheeks warm.

Thorin blinks a few times, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around the question. “Next?” he asks, hushed, some sort of realization dawning on him based on his expression. “I should have mastered more than one meal,” he grouses.

“More than one…? Are you saying you only know how to cook pork butt?” Bilbo asks in genuine surprise. He did it so well…

Thorin looks embarrassed. “I do not have… time to spend in the kitchens,” he mumbles, eyeing the rest of the blackberry pie. “It seemed more prudent to learn to cook one meal well for… for us.”

 _For you_ goes unsaid but Bilbo hears it nevertheless and does his very best to tamp down the hope bubbling in his stomach.

“Well,” he says, trying not to grin, “you certainly did it more than well. Perhaps you and I can spend a bit of time in the kitchen learning another meal or two. Bombur always said he’d like to try my blackberry pie… maybe I can send you off with the knowledge of how to make it. But! You couldn’t tell him, of course. It’s a secret family recipe.” He leans in, lowering his voice, “It’s the bourbon that does it. No one has figured it out yet, quite surprising given how many bourbon enthusiasts live among us.”

Thorin smiles, amused. “I would be glad to learn and honored to learn a recipe of that caliber,” he says, nursing the last of his own wine. “My sister will die of shock should I return to the mountain knowing how to make more than one decent meal.” When Bilbo snickers, Thorin huffs. “I know my way around stews well enough, Mister Baggins, you’ll be shocked to hear. My nephews will not say so because they grew tired of eating it in Ered Luin. But there were many thousands of dwarves to feed after Erebor fell and it was best that I lent aid where I could on the road.”

Bilbo sobers up, nodding slowly. “I see,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I imagine your people weren’t used to such a sight.”

“No and it went poorly the first few times. Eventually we reached Ered Luin and I grew too busy to cook but I remembered how well enough… just no decent meals.”

“And now one very decent one,” Bilbo says. “And you’re only… one hundred and fifty?”

Thorin laughs outright. “To be so young again,” he says with a grin. “I am one hundred and ninety-six, Master Baggins.”

“Goodness! Well, you look very spry for your age,” Bilbo says, laughing as Thorin cocks an eyebrow. “How long do dwarves live for?”

“Two hundred seventy, two hundred eighty. Occasionally three hundred which is something to celebrate. We dwarves of Erebor were known for our long lives before the dragon came. I hope the new dwarves of Erebor will see the same prosperity.”

“As do I, although I’m sure they will. Erebor is a fine place to grow old, it seems.”

“Aye. As is the Shire,” Thorin says, perhaps a bit hesitantly.

Bilbo nods. “Oh yes, indeed. A very fine place. Perhaps, though… well, I’d like to see Erebor in all its grandeur before my dying day. Hopefully I’ll get the chance.”

“Erebor will welcome you with open arms,” Thorin says warmly, smiling. “I would be glad to seat you at my side there.”

Bilbo ignores the way that sounds to his earnest ears. “Maybe that can be arranged then. After a good long while, at least! I’ve only just returned to the Shire, really. I’ll need to relax some before I travel again. I don’t know how you managed to do it again so quickly.”

“A life debt is no small matter,” Thorin says easily, his eyes glittering with mirth at the no doubt sour turn to Bilbo’s lips, “and I am used to a nomadic life still. Traveling is not as much of a burden to me.”

“Of course,” Bilbo says although he isn’t so sure. It seems like Thorin would welcome the chance to never have to travel so far again now that he’s Erebor’s king. Perhaps the life debt has been weighing on him as it is beginning to weigh on Bilbo. “Well… would you like another slice of pie?”

Thorin groans theatrically. “Peace, Master Baggins, peace,” he says, holding up his hands. “I shall sooner have to roll down the hill than walk down it.”

Bilbo giggles, feeling the wine coursing through his blood. “And what a sight that would be,” he says fondly.

They gaze silently at each other for a while until they decide to clean up after themselves, enjoy a smoke outside in the cooler night air, and eventually manage to part with a lingering good night.  
  
——

The first few days spent together are easy, conversation flowing well, many laughs to be had in such a relaxed environment. They mostly stay indoors, preferring to be away from the gossiping residents of Hobbiton, although they both know that will eventually have to end. Thorin mumbles about staying for at least a month, to Bilbo’s great surprise (and a bit of nervous energy and rapidly racing heart but Thorin didn’t need to know that) and he knows that they will have to be social at some point.

There is a bake-off just around the corner, always paired with the vegetable competition, and Bilbo spends his increasingly early mornings out in the garden, bending low enough so as to not gather attention to himself. When Thorin comes, they retreat to Bag End’s cool halls and enjoy each other’s company.

Bilbo is… happy to have Thorin in the Shire. Unbelievably so, even if half the time he feels like it’s a dream he will be unpleasantly awoken from. It really hasn’t been that long since their quest, since Bilbo was in Erebor, but the time apart felt like ages. Thorin is truly his dearest friend and he has a feeling he always will be, even when they part and live halfway across the world from each other. He tries not to think about that day, too frightened of what it will do to him, and simply basks in Thorin’s company.

The day comes when Thorin moves from the inn to Bilbo’s spare room and although Bilbo is very happy for this turn of events, he’s also shockingly nervous. To have Thorin so very close by… to have breakfast with him, still in their pajamas, well, it’s all a bit surreal. He’s not a king here and hasn’t been donning his fur coat, which gave him a lot of splendor all by itself, and he begins to look right at home as the days go by.

Finally, when they really have no choice but to stop ignoring the calls to the door, Bilbo accepts invitations for tea along with his companion. They take tea with the Bagginses, Bracegirdles, Proudfeet, and Gamgees. It all goes surprisingly smoothly and they are invited for dinners to follow.

Thorin makes an excellent conversational partner, always glad to offer his input even on boringly expected topics such as china sets and the latest lace patterns, thanks to Bilbo’s aunts. He is polite, sometimes witty, and all in all very diplomatic. Bilbo supposes that comes with being a king.

He keeps his nose out of gossip much like Bilbo, even though he doesn’t even know who the neighbors are trying to gossip about, and charms everyone well enough that even a very late wedding invitation finds its way to Bilbo’s mailbox. Thorin fails to see why this amuses Bilbo so much but he smiles, saying he is pleased that he brought a few formal outfits that will be fit enough for a wedding.

Bilbo doesn’t particularly know why Thorin brought any formal outfits along to begin with but considering he ran out of his door in his best dinner jacket he decides not to question it.  
  
The wedding arrives sooner than they were expecting and Thorin happens to look very splendid in a shining emerald tunic with silver stitching, a strikingly smart buckle made of mithril on his abdomen. His trousers are dark and formal and his boots have been cleaned and shined for the event. Bilbo tries not to ogle him too openly, thinking that he will only give himself away, but Thorin stares at Bilbo’s own cream waistcoat with those oak-shaped buttons he had admired some time ago, stating that Bilbo looks _very handsome, Master Baggins_ and causing Bilbo’s toes to positively curl in the process.

It’s all very beautiful, sunflowers and golden daylilys surrounding a stunning white picket archway. The bride and groom are dressed in their very best, as is everyone else, and Bilbo goes about the gargantuan task of introducing Thorin to all of his neighbors and relatives he had yet to meet.

Besides a few head shakes and quiet murmurs from the less polite hobbits, everyone seems as charmed by Thorin as Bilbo himself is.

The wedding itself goes by quickly and with much thunderous applause, even if Thorin looks utterly confused by all the hobbit traditions, which amuses Bilbo to no end. They are all taken to the reception afterward in the Party Field and proceed to party as hobbits do, getting drunk on ale and eating enough to have to unbutton their waistbands. Thorin seems to enjoy it all very much, laughing heartily, singing drinking songs in bawdy Khuzdul, participating in ale-drinking competitions and all around making a fool of himself, as one does on such occasions.

He nurses a hangover in the morning and Bilbo takes good care of him, thinking that he could do this forever.

Time goes by rather too quickly but Thorin makes no mention of leaving anytime soon even if the thought alone keeps Bilbo up at night.

But then it is the day of the bake-off and Bilbo finds his worries replaced with other, more pressing concerns.

He wakes in the early morning hours to begin on his pies, blackberry of course, and sweet potato and the ever daring apple strudel, one of many that will appear. He mixes the dough and rolls it out, focusing on the familiar movements, trying not to let his nerves overwhelm him. Once he is done with the pies, he will have to see to his tomatoes, which he knows will likely win but still makes him anxious nevertheless.

Thorin strolls into the kitchen when the sweet potato pie is in the oven, breathing in deeply.

“The competition is not until afternoon tea,” he reminds Bilbo, reaching for the mixing bowl.

Bilbo slaps his hands away with the spoon he’s using to mix the apples and cinnamon together. “You’ll have a taste another day! It’s bad luck,” he says, waving the spoon threateningly when it seems Thorin wants to make another go at it.

Thorin sighs, conceding defeat. “Very well,” he says, moving to the kettle and beginning to make tea. “Do you want me to make our breakfast this morning?”

“No, it’s alright, I’ll do it,” Bilbo says, turning back to his mixing. “Better to keep moving today than not to.”

Thorin hums, watching Bilbo. “If you would like…”

“No no,” Bilbo says hurriedly. “I don’t need any help. I do this every year, you know, you’d only be getting in my way.”

“I have learned a fair amount in these last few weeks at your hand alone, Bilbo. I can manage to help, if it would soothe you.”

“It’s against the rules to have help either way,” Bilbo says, pouring the gooey mixture into a prepared pie tin.

“So you say,” Thorin mumbles, pouring them both a steaming cup of black tea. He sits at the table and drizzles a bit of honey into his cup, breathing in the steam and sighing in pleasure.

He looks so very at home that Bilbo feels his heart ache. He could watch Thorin all day, he thinks, but that would give him away. He shakes off the thought and begins to make them breakfast.  
  
Quite a few scrambled eggs, crispy peppered bacon, mounds of toast and a whole jar of strawberry jam later, Bilbo is back to his pies and Thorin has brought a book in from the library to read at the table.

Bilbo wonders if Thorin is worried about him or if he simply wants to watch Bilbo bake, as he seems to have enjoyed in the last few weeks.

The day goes by too quickly for Bilbo’s liking, second breakfast and luncheon passing by in a blur, taking care of his tomatoes and choosing the ripest he can find to present to the judges. He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous but as he finds himself watching Thorin more and more as the day goes by, he thinks… _ah. It’s all because of you._ But it’s not a bad thing, no, he enjoys having Thorin around so very much. It’s just… different. A different he is steadily getting used to all the same.

By the time afternoon tea rolls around, Bilbo packs his pies away in a blanketed basket, a second basket carried by Thorin full of bright red tomatoes, heavy with juice and sweet in flavor. They make their way silently down to the Party Field, greeting everyone as they go, until they arrive at the judge’s tables. Bilbo puts his name on a small, paper placard and highly reluctantly hands over his goods to the sweet Chubb girl handling registration.

Bilbo and Thorin head off to get themselves some fresh air and a plateful of Bell’s mince pies, finding a table and seating themselves.  They watch as hobbits bring their pies and vegetables, some ginormous melons needing a mule-pulled cart to carry them around, and speculate on who they think will win each competition.  
  
It takes a while to get everyone situated and it’s not until the judges begin to look sour at how long it’s all taking that the organizers of the event get everyone settled down.

The large watermelon competition is first and very naturally the award goes to Ludo Proudfoot, whose melons win every year and no one can quite figure out how he does it. He always says it’s about the singing but no one can say if that truly works or not and from the way he titters about it, everyone has come to agree that his land is simply the culprit.

Squash competitions follow and everyone receives their ribbons to happy applause. Thorin seems to be bemused by it all but he applauds politely with everyone else and laughs just as heartily during the speech Eloise Grubb seems keen on making after her yellow squash takes home first place.

“Is it always done this seriously in the Shire?” Thorin asks as he gazes around the field and at the hundreds of residents that have come. “Competitions?”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo says. “For many generations. There are only so many times you can have the biggest summer squash in all of the Shire and fail to make it a competition. Or the ripest tomatoes.” He taps the side of his nose as the tasting competitions begin.

The judges sample peppers, cucumbers, small squashes, cabbages and lettuce, taking into account each one’s color, shape, texture, size and taste.

Bilbo sips on ale that is handed around to the competitors, Thorin at his side, and eagerly awaits his turn.

At last batches of tomatoes are brought to the judges. Tomatoes are a particularly competitive area and most hobbits sit up straighter, watching as the judges squeeze each fruit, cutting into them and sampling them with care. It takes a while to get through them all, seeing as how most hobbits grow tomatoes in their garden and each of them thinks theirs is the best.

The judges consult together, peering over their scorecards, and Bilbo waits with bated breath as the judge, Blanco Harfoot (a hobbit of excellent standing), stands and clears his throat theatrically.

Even Thorin seems to be on the edge of his seat.

“Ahem,” someone in the crowd coughs.

Bilbo feels a sense of dread because he knows that cough well and the high-pitched voice that follows always makes his skin crawl.

Blanco looks taken aback at the interruption but sweeps his hat off and gestures kindly. “Mrs. Sackville-Baggins?”

“Well,” Lobelia simpers, standing from the bench at her table, glancing in Bilbo’s direction for a fleeting moment. “Surely we’re all thinking it… should tomatoes that had more than one caretaker due to… unforeseen events, be entered in the competition? Why, if it wasn’t one family’s hands that touched it, I should think it’s hardly fair to the rest of us that spend so many months with our own tomatoes that these other tomatoes be given a chance.”

Bilbo feels his heart drift to lie somewhere near his stomach. It is of course obvious of who she speaks, and Bilbo feels the back of his neck prickle when most hobbits turn to look in his direction.

Thorin has stiffened by his side and is eyeing Lobelia with ill-disguised contempt.

“Well, well,” Blanco says, trying to regain the crowd’s attention, “perhaps that is something we should deliberate but seeing as how our residents have all been in Hobbiton since spring, I hardly think it should make a difference…”

“I daresay I disagree,” Lobelia says, sickly sweet, giggling. “Some of our residents left in the spring of the previous year. And all of us must look after our dormant plants through winter still and chase off worms that come when the ground begins to thaw. Before certain residents were back in Hobbiton, I might add…”

Bilbo’s stomach coils and he thinks quickly, trying to come up with a counter argument but unfortunately he sees the point Lobelia is making and disappointment begins to overcome him. This is a snag he should have seen coming.

“I say, now, as the caretaker of those particular tomato plants during Mister Bilbo’s adventure, I hardly did anything of note. Only ensured their survival. Their prunin’ and all around livelihood belongs to Mister Bilbo,” Hamfast says, standing up a few tables away from Lobelia.

There is scattered murmuring here, mostly in agreement, hobbits bobbing their heads and waving their hands dismissively toward Lobelia.

Her mien turns ugly for a brief moment before she remembers herself and smiles widely, like a toad. “But there was the previous summer that you tended to Mister Bilbo’s tomatoes, wasn’t there?”

“Well, aye, but it was only watering them!” Hamfast says, looking a bit angry now. “And I think certain things ought to be taken into account, such as a grand, important adventure!”

Bilbo feels an incredible swell of fondness for Hamfast and dares to glance around at his fellow hobbits, who are all nodding in agreement again, surprisingly so. But when he looks at Thorin, well, he’s a bit taken aback by the venom twisting his lips as he stares at Lobelia.

“I’ve mentioned her,” Bilbo mumbles. “Haven’t I?”

“Aye,” Thorin mutters back, “but you did not say she was vile.”

Unfortunately Thorin’s deep voice carries well enough to Lobelia’s ears and she puffs up like an ugly rooster, her red hat swaying dangerously atop her head.

“And _him,”_ she says, pointing at Thorin, “how do we know Mister Bilbo’s guest hasn’t been lending his aid?”

“Well, they do live in the same smial for the time being, hardly against the rules,” Blanco says quickly, wiping sweat from his brow. “I think the judges have picked a winner…”

“Hah! And we allow tomatoes now that have been touched by outsiders? That aren’t purely taken care of by a hobbit’s hand?” Lobelia says shrilly, looking a bit more deranged now that she has lost any support she might have gained.

“I have not touched Bilbo’s tomatoes,” Thorin says coolly, glaring at Lobelia. “It is through no fault of his that his garden trounces your own tenfold.”

Lobelia looks as if she has been slapped. She falters and says breathlessly, “Well it just goes to show how very ignorant dwarves are of gardens if you think such a thing. I would say you’re more interested in black magic and sorcery than anything proper! You must be, to whisk hobbits away so easily!”

“I think you mistake me for a wizard, from which there are many differences,” Thorin says dryly, hardly goaded at all, much to Bilbo’s pride.

“Aye, about three feet or so!” someone cheers.

The crowd laughs and Lobelia scowls terribly, glaring at everyone as if she thinks they’re scum on her toes. She steps away from the table, grabbing her husband Otho by the arm (and the poor fellow does look very embarrassed), and marches away from them all.  
  
Blanco chuckles, flapping his arms for everyone’s attention. “Yes, yes, I think we can move on, no harm done,” he says, winking at Bilbo. “I think we can all forgive a little adventuring when you have Took blood.”

There is a general chorus of agreement and Bilbo feels his heart calm down, his nerves easing, and relaxes against the table, lifting his mug in cheers to anyone who nods his way. He looks at Thorin and grins.

“Thank you. Not many people stand up to her, you know,” he says quietly.

Thorin doesn’t look bothered in the least. “They should. Dishonorable behavior deserves to be called to attention,” he murmurs, smiling warmly. “I would not let you lose this competition.”

“Oh, well… it’s just a competition,” Bilbo says, neglecting to mention how much time he spends each year getting his tomatoes ready. From the fond look Thorin sends him, he suspects he’s aware anyway.

“And the winner is…” Blanco’s voice booms, “…Bilbo Baggins and his ever prized tomatoes!”

A great thunderous applause follows his words and Bilbo hurriedly stands, making his way to the makeshift stage erected for just such occasions, and collects his golden ribbon, a fat tomato stitched in the center of it. He holds it up for the crowd and laughs at the whistles and cheers emanating from his friends and neighbors.

It is Thorin who catches his eye, as it always is. He is watching Bilbo with such open affection, his eyes soft, clapping along with his fellows, and all of Bilbo’s breath is stolen away. He swallows dryly, wondering at the look in Thorin’s eyes, but deciding that questioning it will only lead to depressing outcomes. He rejoins Thorin in the crowd and shows off his ribbon, hoping to dispel the utterly fond look but Thorin merely clasps Bilbo’s shoulder, his fingers squeezing lightly and only leaving with a brush against his arm as others come to congratulate Bilbo personally.

They stay for the pie competitions, Bilbo’s sweet potato and apple strudel both earning a third place ribbon and his blackberry taking second but their stomachs begin to rumble along with most of the crowds’ and food is quickly served, along with more freely flowing ale. Bilbo and Thorin gather up plates of food and find a seat with the Gamgees, feasting and drinking with them, making merry and enjoying themselves immensely.

Hamfast and Bell have taken a particular liking to Thorin, it seems, and they question him about Erebor, about his kingly duties, his family, and Bilbo listens, smiling to himself.

It all sounds so very grand when Thorin speaks about Erebor. Far away and unreachable. It makes Bilbo somewhat sad, knowing that Thorin will leave the Shire and venture back there. He finds himself thinking about excuses he might make to keep Thorin a little longer at his side but they each sound selfish. Thorin still hasn’t said when he will be leaving, acting almost evasively when Bilbo comments on it, until he decides not to comment anymore. Perhaps if they both avoid speaking about it Thorin will simply… remain in the Shire forever.

It’s a good dream anyway.

When the sun begins to set after desserts have been served and eaten, a large area in the field is set aside for dancing, musicians bringing out their instruments now that the heat of the day has begun to wane. Bilbo and Thorin sit at a bench to observe the dancers, laughing at all of the fauntlings dancing a jig together. Bilbo tells Thorin what each dance is called and Thorin in turn tells Bilbo about dwarven dancing. It sounds quite complicated and Bilbo is secretly thinking he’s glad he was never forced to dance a dwarven step when Thorin abruptly stands as a fast-paced tune begins.

He holds out his hand to Bilbo in an invitation and when Bilbo can only gape up at him, Thorin merely smirks, as if to say _do you dare?_

Well, Bilbo is hardly going to say no to that. If Thorin thinks he can keep up with Bilbo, he’ll soon learn differently.

They walk onto the trampled grass and Thorin takes Bilbo’s hands, smiling at him and inclining his head. “Hobbit or dwarf?” he asks rather playfully.

“Oh, just show me whatever it is that dwarves call dancing.”

Thorin chuckles. “Let us see if you can master an easy step,” he says. He moves to Bilbo’s side, still holding one of his hands, and begins to slowly, patiently show Bilbo the steps to what Bilbo suspects is a normally quick dance.

He follows well, he thinks, dancing in his blood, and tries not to get distracted by the group of fauntlings that are observing them and copying Thorin’s movements. He steadily begins to move faster and soon Bilbo finds himself out of breath. There is a good deal more movement with his legs and arms, stomping and flailing that somehow all ends up more elegant than most hobbit numbers. It is more of a workout than he has gotten in a while but thankfully his sweaty brow cools quickly in a nightly breeze.

Thorin’s booming laughter at Bilbo’s scowl when the pace picks up again is really what makes it worth it, he thinks. He is too handsome, his hair flowing with each step, his eyes lit up in joy and Bilbo is not surprised that they have caught the attention of many hobbits when the dance number ends and he looks around to see if he’s made a fool out of himself in front of everyone.

The crowd around them cheers, complimenting Thorin especially, and Bilbo decides it’s time for a hobbitish step or two.

It is Thorin who has trouble keeping up with the quick twirls and jumps but he is determined and claps his hands just as hard as those around them.

It is no surprise that by the time they tire, they have mixed hobbit and dwarf dancing to something they can manage together, many hobbits around them following their footsteps. But they both seem to decide at the same moment that they are not as young as they once were and, laughing and clutching each other, go to find another ale or two.

They seat themselves at a table near the outskirts of the party, toasting to another competition won, and drink deeply together.

“I have not enjoyed myself like this since I was a lad,” Thorin admits after a while of watching others. “Thank you, Bilbo.”

“Whatever for?”

Thorin sweeps his arm broadly around. “Everything. For allowing me to spend time with you in the Shire. For hosting me and showing me that I am still allowed to enjoy myself.”

Bilbo blushes, ducking his head and smiling to himself. “Oh, well… of course, Thorin,” he says, unable to meet his companion’s eye. “I’ve enjoyed your company immensely. You are a great help in Bag End and… and should you ever wish to visit the Shire again, I’d like to do it all again.”

“I am not leaving yet, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, resting his hand on the table dangerously close to Bilbo’s. “There is a birthday party for one of your numerous cousin’s in a few days, is there not?”

Bilbo laughs, looking up at Thorin, his heart fluttering to have Thorin’s attention so closely on him. “There is, in fact. I suppose it’ll be much like tonight, yes,” he says, trying not to think about Thorin’s warm shoulder brushing against his own. “Another night full of good ale and food anyway.”

“And you,” Thorin says utterly seriously.

“Of… of course,” Bilbo says, faltering, his heart rapidly picking up pace. “And you. I wish that you could come to every birthday party with me, Thorin.”

It’s almost too close to a confession but the ale is coursing through his veins and Bilbo wonders if it would really do such harm if Thorin knew how very much he cared for him. How very much he loved him, he admits to himself.

“I would like that,” Thorin says, his fingertips brushing alongside Bilbo’s hand.

“Bilbo, there you are!” someone cries.

They spring apart like startled rabbits and look quickly toward the newcomer, seeing Blanco Harfoot stumbling his way toward them, an ale sloshing its contents over the mug held in his hands.

Bilbo’s heart is racing unpleasantly and he feels like an opportunity to be brave is quickly slipping through his fingertips. He doesn’t dare look at Thorin, instead frowning at Blanco, holding his own mug closer to his chest.

“Whatever is the matter, Blanco?” Bilbo asks, for his fellow hobbit does look rather harrowed.

“I just got away,” Blanco pants, sitting down across from them. “I mean, uh, finished a conversation with Mrs. Sackville-Baggins and her husband. Rather talked my ear off, I’m afraid, very upset about the tomato business…” He shudders, gulping his ale and wiping foam from his mouth. “They want me to take your ribbon from you. Or at least she does, Otho was, as usual, very quiet when she goes on.”

Bilbo pats his golden ribbon which is pinned to his waistcoat, a tradition among the winners. “Shall I hand it over then?”

Blanco looks truly shaken at the question. “Of course not!” he says, indignant perhaps on Bilbo’s behalf. “You won with the same tomatoes you win with every year! Who cares if Hamfast watered them for a month or two? The gall of her to even suggest it! And she won third place, you know, I had to find her to give her her ribbon!”

Bilbo glances sidelong at Thorin, who is staring down at his mug of ale and doesn’t seem to be listening or at least not very well. “You know how she is, Blanco. If it’s to do with me, she never thinks it’s right or fair,” he says placatingly. “Ever since we were faunts.”

“Still…” Blanco says but doesn’t seem in any hurry to continue. He drinks his ale, glancing around the party field, straightening his hat. Eventually he turns his attention back to Bilbo. “You’re not running off again, though, are you?” he asks with a glance at Thorin.

Thorin seems to have stiffened and Bilbo feels rather put on the spot.

“I don’t think so,” he says carefully. “I haven’t even been back a year yet, I need a while to rest after my journey. One day I’ll go back but I don’t know when. Could be when I’m ninety!” He chuckles uneasily.

Blanco glances between the silent Thorin and flustered Bilbo. “If you were to want to go before you’re decrepit, I’m sure we would all send you off happily enough. The Gamgees would be glad to take care of Bag End for as long as you could ever want.”

Bilbo is surprised by how earnestly Blanco is speaking. “Yes, I do know that,” he says softly. “And I appreciate it greatly. I won’t leave so unexpectedly on my next adventure.”

“I would provide a guard for Master Baggins,” Thorin says quietly, lifting his gaze from his mug to look at Blanco. “So he could make the journey to Erebor safely.”

Blanco nods in approval. “Good! It’s a long way, isn’t it?” he asks. When Thorin nods, he reaches over and claps Thorin soundly on the shoulder. “Good man! Our Bilbo is well loved here! By all it seems!” He winks in a way he must think is discreet but Bilbo catches it anyway.

“Aye,” Thorin agrees easily.

“Well, I have more people to personally congratulate still!” Blanco says, standing on unsteady feet, trying not to lose anymore ale. “Keep hold of that ribbon, Bilbo, and don’t think you don’t deserve it!” He offers a salute and turns, tumbling off.

Bilbo and Thorin sit in a somewhat awkward silence, neither seeming to know what to say. Bilbo gazes around the Party Field, seeing couples seated together in the grass, more and more as each hour passes by. There are still a large number of hobbits dancing and feasting but Bilbo suddenly feels the need to get away from it all. He wants the quiet, familiar halls of Bag End, and to go back to laughing with Thorin inside of them.

“Well, erm… are you ready to turn in for the evening? It’s getting a bit late. Not that I have to be up early to tend to my tomatoes tomorrow,” he says, smiling tightly.

Thorin finishes his ale. “Aye,” he says, wiping foam from his moustache, a much more endearing sight than Blanco. “Let us retire.”

They take their mugs to the washing tent and begin to make their way toward the hill, saying goodbye to a great many number of hobbits, which takes them longer than Bilbo would like. When they are free of company, they walk up the lane and into Bag End, getting a few lanterns lit for some light.

“I think I may go to bed,” Bilbo says, avoiding Thorin’s eye. “Get a solid night of sleep after all these last few poor ones.”

“Will you wait a moment?” Thorin asks, his voice ever so quiet.

“Oh, erm, of course, Thorin,” Bilbo says, bouncing on his toes, his nerves alighting once again.

Thorin inclines his head and leaves the sitting room, wandering down the hall and to his bedroom by the sound of it.

Bilbo waits for him, unable to explain why he feels so nervous. It had felt as if they were coming to some understanding at the party and Bilbo wishes desperately to go back to that moment but now it seems as if it is insurmountably far away. Like he couldn’t go back even if he tried.

It doesn’t take long for Thorin to reappear and he is holding something in his hands. “I have a gift for you,” he says, approaching Bilbo rather more haltingly than usual.

“Oh, I thought they had finally stopped,” Bilbo says and quickly realizes how that sounds. “Not that… not that, well, I mean, your gifts are always very nice but it’s been a while, thought you might wait until… another time,” he finishes lamely, gripping at his breast pocket, where the granite token rests.

Thorin finally smiles again, his posture relaxing. “Peace, I am well aware of your views on too many gifts by now,” he says. “But you shall receive another either way.” He holds out something rectangular shaped wrapped in loose, crinkled paper, tied with a simple string.

Bilbo takes it cautiously, untying the string and pulling the paper off. He blinks down at a deep green cover, reminded of his front door, and runs his fingertips over thick leather. It takes him a moment of simply staring before he realizes he _is_ staring at his green door. It is a perfect rendition of Bag End’s door, even with a brass knocker painted in the middle, all made of leather, bound in a book.

He flips open the pages and sees that they are blank. A journal, with crisp parchment paper, bound beautifully and with obvious skill.

“You once said you would be interested in writing a book about our journey,” Thorin says, low. “I thought you should have a journal fit enough for the experience.”

Bilbo blinks rapidly, his eyes wet to his great surprise, and lightly sniffs. “Oh, Thorin…” he sighs, running his hand reverently over the journal. “It’s truly beautiful. And so expertly bound! Whenever did you have the time to commission this?”

“It was made in Erebor,” Thorin says, smiling, gazing at Bilbo steadily. “I was waiting for the right time to give it to you.”

“Erebor,” Bilbo whispers, hugging the journal close to himself. The most wonderful gift he has been given in a very long time, one that doesn’t seem to originate from any debts. Thorin’s grandmother’s ring was special in a different way. This is a continuation of their quest, something with which to immortalize it, and Bilbo is infinitely touched. “Thank you, Thorin. Thank you.” He smiles widely.

Thorin leans in, gently pressing his forehead to Bilbo’s, his hands resting over Bilbo’s arms. _“Ghivashel,”_ he breathes. “You are welcome.”

“What does that mean?”

“My friend,” Thorin says, pulling back, his voice somewhat tight. “My greatest friend.”

“Well then I suppose you are my _ghivashel_ as well,” Bilbo says with a grin.

Thorin laughs. “My greatest wish,” he says, grinning in return but there is something in his eyes that Bilbo can’t place. Thorin sighs, his hands sliding from Bilbo’s arms. “Good night, my Bilbo.”

“Good night,” Bilbo peeps, wishing more than anything in that moment that he _was_ Thorin’s. That when they retire to bed, they do so together. But it cannot be… Thorin must go back to Erebor and they could not last together so far apart. It would hurt Bilbo terribly.

Thorin lingers for a time but eventually he smiles softly and turns, going down the hall to the guest bedroom. Bilbo watches him, still clutching the journal, and backs up until he reaches his armchair, sitting down.

His heart feels heavy with longing, with love, and he wonders how much longer he can do this. Watching the flickering light of a lantern, Bilbo decides that no matter how hard it is to be in Thorin’s company without it being something _more,_ he will enjoy it nevertheless.   
  
——

By the next morning, the easy flow of conversation is back, almost as if it had never hit a snag to begin with. Bilbo and Thorin dance around each other in the kitchen to make breakfast and if Thorin’s hand brushes Bilbo’s waist occasionally, well… he simply tries not to think about it. Thorin is unconsciously driving him mad with every little touch, every soft gaze, and Bilbo thinks dwarves must be even more handsy than hobbits.

The next few days go by as they always have, with Thorin offering his help wherever he can, still murmuring about debts when Bilbo tells him he’s only getting in the way but instead of being flustered by it, he laughs with Thorin. They seem to come to a silent agreement that while Thorin is still going to be a nuisance, he is aware that he will likely never repay a life debt in a place as peaceful as the Shire.

They grocery shop, cook many meals together, read in the library, have lengthy conversations well into the night and Bilbo tries not to think about _forever._

One night is spent atop the hill, laying on their backs in the grass, side by side, the backs of their hands brushing together, watching the stars. Thorin tells Bilbo story after story of his youth in Erebor, the mischief he would get up to with his siblings, the types of lessons he learned from his father and grandfather, of when he chose his blacksmithing craft. He listens to it all in rapture, soaking up every bit of Thorin’s life that he can. He thinks that Thorin does not likely open up this much with anyone else and tries not to get choked up by the privilege of being Thorin Oakenshield’s greatest friend.

Thorin still does not mention when he will go back to Erebor and Bilbo still does not ask.

A week later, Bilbo is preparing his grocery basket for a trip to the market, trying not to peek out into the back garden, where Thorin is chopping wood, a favor for Bilbo before autumn comes. His shirt is clinging to his sweaty skin and he makes for an enticing sight but Bilbo feels badly for spying on him. He straightens himself out after a good scolding and steps outside, heading to the back garden.

“I’m off to get tonight’s supper,” he announces once Thorin has caught sight of him and stops swinging the axe. “Is there anything in particular you would like at the market?”

“You know that I will eat whatever you make and enjoy it,” Thorin says with a handsome smile. “But I would not say no to pork chops.”

“Again?” Bilbo asks, laughing. “Goodness, Thorin, you could live off of pork alone. Alright, pork chops… I suppose we’ll need apples then. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

Thorin shakes his head, gesturing at the wood pile, which isn’t even halfway finished. “I would like to finish this before midday,” he says, tugging his shirt away from his skin, flapping it so air will cool his heated skin, not having a clue what he’s doing for Bilbo’s sensibilities. “I will go with you next time.”

“Well alright,” Bilbo says, turning away before he becomes slack-jawed. “See you in a short while!”

Bilbo leaves the garden and takes the road down to the market, beginning to do his shopping, picking out the best pork chops he can find, along with apples, purple potatoes and asparagus. It’ll be a good meal, Bilbo thinks, eager to share yet another one with Thorin. He is so very appreciative whenever he is fed.

“Bilbo Baggins,” a pleasant voice says, one too familiar.

He freezes, hand holding a head of garlic, and slowly turns around to face a towering wizard. “Gandalf,” he says, numb with surprise. “Gandalf! Oh goodness, I wasn’t expecting you!”

“I should think not,” Gandalf says kindly. “I was passing through and thought I might see how you fare now that you’ve been home for some months.”

Bilbo is still feeling terribly caught off guard but he pays for his garlic and sets it in the basket. “Oh… well, that’s very kind of you,” he says uncertainly. “I’m doing well. More than well! I’m right at home. Better than being on the road at any rate.”

“Indeed, indeed…” Gandalf says, leaning on his staff, oblivious to the staring and grumpy whisperings in the market. He peers down his nose at Bilbo, inspecting him closely, and seems to come to a decision. “Well, if you are offering tea, I would be delighted to join you.”

“I’m certain I didn’t offer,” Bilbo says dryly. “But you’re welcome to join me nonetheless. I’m done here, so come along!”

They begin to head out of the market, Gandalf seeming very amused about something or other, and halfway up the hill Bilbo stops dead. He can hear the dull thud of a wood through axe and suddenly remembers that he has an important guest who is not likely to be happy at, possibly even angry with, who is joining them for tea.

“What is the matter?” Gandalf asks.

“Oh, well… nothing, nothing. Only, I’ve got a guest over for the time being so we’ll have company,” Bilbo mumbles, beginning to set off for Bag End again.

Gandalf merely hums merrily and soon is ushered inside by Bilbo, who frets when Gandalf’s head knocks into the chandelier. Once Gandalf assures him he’s well, Bilbo quickly puts his shopping away and begins to make tea, surreptitiously glancing toward the back garden, wondering when Thorin will come in.

They settle themselves down at the table, sipping their tea and munching on blueberry biscuits.

“So my dear fellow,” Gandalf says, “I hear I have missed the competitions.”

“You know about them?” Bilbo asks in surprise.

“Of course I do. I went to one years ago, when your mother was a tween, oblivious to the way one Bungo Baggins looked at her,” Gandalf says, chortling. “My fireworks were well received that night, if I am not mistaken.”

Bilbo puffs out a laugh. “I’m sure,” he says with a grin. “I won first place for my tomatoes, you know. One of my fellow hobbits thought I shouldn’t but they do win every year. Bit of a tradition now, I suppose.”

“Congratulations,” Gandalf says, his eyes twinkling as he pulls out his pipe. He lights it with a flick of his finger. “Perhaps I can make it next year. You will be here next year, won’t you?”

“Where else would I be?” Bilbo asks, furrowing his brow, the back of his neck tingling for a reason he can’t place.

“Gandalf,” a deep, dry voice says.

Bilbo startles but no more than Gandalf, who turns to look at the doorway and proceeds to choke on his smoke.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” he wheezes, wiping the corners of his eyes. “Thorin Oakenshield in the Shire! What on earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Thorin says, eyeing Gandalf with open disdain. His eyes soften when they turn to Bilbo. “Has the wizard been harassing you?”

Bilbo rolls his eyes. “No, Thorin,” he says warningly, ignoring Gandalf’s harrumph and mutters about _harassing a dear friend._ “Gandalf came to see how I’ve been doing.” He turns back to Gandalf. “Thorin came to visit me rather unexpectedly a while ago and has been my guest.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf asks, peering between them, his eyebrows raised. “All the way from a newly retaken Erebor?”

Thorin shifts uncomfortably on his feet before deciding to pour himself a cup of tea and join them at the table, sitting close to Bilbo’s side. “Aye,” he mutters. “To repay a debt.”

“A debt, hmm?” Gandalf muses, puffing on his pipe, looking maddeningly as if he knows something they don’t. “Is that all?”

“And to see how Master Baggins fares,” Thorin adds coolly. “He is my friend.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Gandalf says, smiling. “He is no longer running short of friends it seems.”

Bilbo is a bit disgruntled to be talked about as if he’s not in the room. “No, I suppose I’m not,” he says quickly. “Though most are very far away. Thorin and I have been… erm, enjoying ourselves quite a bit.” He blushes. “Erm, as far as everyday Shire living goes.”

“As fine a place as I’ve ever seen,” Gandalf says. “Who sits on the throne?”

“My sister, with Fili by her side. An opportunity for him to see what he will face when his time comes,” Thorin says, a still-cool edge to his tone, as there always is with Gandalf around. “I have the utmost faith in him.”

“Good, good…” Gandalf blows a smoke ring, amusement shining in his eyes for a reason Bilbo can’t quite place.

The conversation warms up a bit from there, Gandalf telling a story or two about his latest dealings in Middle Earth, all the while ignoring Thorin’s occasional snide remark about meddling wizards. Bilbo enjoys Gandalf’s conversation immensely and is glad the wizard thought to stop by, touched that he’s checking on him relatively quickly after their journey.

Gandalf stays for luncheon, much to Thorin’s chagrin, but after a bottle of wine is shared, he says he must be off to see to business with the Thain, but that he will see them once more before he leaves in the morning.

Bilbo walks Gandalf out, Thorin not bothering to join them. “It was good to see you, my friend,” he says cheerfully after Gandalf has stooped out of Bag End. “If you’re here by sundown, you can join us for dinner.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf says, smiling warmly. “How long has Thorin Oakenshield been your guest?”

“Oh,” Bilbo says, surprised by the question, “erm, well over a month now.”

“Really,” Gandalf says, not sounding the least bit surprised himself. “Hmm, yes, I suppose he’s enjoying the company.”

“And I his,” Bilbo says, squinting at Gandalf. “What’s on your mind?”

“On my mind? Many things, I daresay.”

Bilbo sighs. “Fine, don’t tell me. But I can tell you’re sussing something out.”

“Coming to many correct conclusions is all, I assure you,” Gandalf says, chuckling. “Most not so surprising. Well, I must be off, my dear Bilbo. I shall see you soon. Goodbye!”

And before Bilbo can stutter out more than a goodbye himself, Gandalf is striding off down the hill, humming a tune to himself as he goes. Bilbo watches him, wondering what _conclusions_ he’s come to and if any are going to spell trouble for himself later. He shakes off his mild unease and goes back inside, heading to the sitting room, where Thorin is in his preferred armchair, reading a book.

He glances over the binding when Bilbo enters. “Is the wizard gone?”

“Yes,” Bilbo says, trying not to laugh, and sits across from Thorin. “Thank you for being somewhat civilized.”

Thorin huffs. “If he tried to whisk you away again, I might not have been. Only bad luck follows a wizard, as they say.”

“I happen to think he was very good luck for me,” Bilbo says, picking up his own book and turning to his bookmark. “He helped you immensely, you know. No life debts owed to him?”

“If he had not abandoned us in our greatest need,” Thorin mumbles, an old argument.

Bilbo simply shakes his head, deciding not to respond to that. “Thank you for chopping the wood for me, Thorin.”

“It was my pleasure,” Thorin says, sounding glad for the change in topic. “It will get us through autumn.”

Bilbo looks up, his heart skipping a beat. “Us?” he asks quietly.

Thorin looks caught off guard. “You,” he say hurriedly. “I meant you.”

A wave of disappointment crashes over Bilbo and he swallows dryly, nodding, turning back to his book. “Of course.”  
  
They read in silence for at least two hours, Bilbo occasionally peeking over his book and watching Thorin. Thorin sometimes glances over his own book and Bilbo must swiftly avert his eyes but it is an all around peaceful way to spend an afternoon.

Tea time comes and they eat meats and cheeses with savory ham scones and enjoy some light conversation. Bilbo tries not to get lost in gloomy thoughts but knowing that Thorin will likely be gone soon doesn’t leave him feeling at his best. Thorin notices, asking him if he’s alright, and Bilbo lies, saying that he is, but Thorin leaves it alone, much to Bilbo’s relief.

He knows that Thorin must leave one day and it is maddeningly painful to think about, so he tries not to. But every time he listens to Thorin softly hum a song or chuckle at Bilbo’s idle muttering as he goes about his business, well, surely no one can blame him for how his heart aches. They seem to fit together so very well in everything and Bilbo tries not to wonder if perhaps Thorin senses it too. There are fleeting touches and glances but perhaps his lovesick mind is reading too much into it. Thorin had said Bilbo was his greatest friend, nothing more.

When the sun begins to set, Bilbo and Thorin are back to reading their respective books, but a familiar deep voice has begun to sing a song outside. Bilbo blinks, marking his page and looks toward his door, expecting a knock. When it doesn’t come, he looks at Thorin, who is peering back at him with an arched eyebrow.

“I suppose I’ll see what he’s up to. I’ve invited him to dinner, just so you know,” Bilbo says pointedly. Thorin merely grunts and Bilbo sighs, patting his shoulder as he walks by, heading to the front door.

He opens it, peering outside, and sees that Gandalf is sitting on his smoking bench with a lit pipe, singing lightly to himself, something in a language Bilbo doesn’t recognize.

Bilbo wonders if he should interrupt but the idea of a smoke while watching the setting sun does seem lovely and he hurries inside to fetch his pipe. He packs and lights it and joins Gandalf outside, sitting on the bench next to him.

Gandalf merely glances at him and winks, continuing to sing.

Bilbo feels himself relax completely, watching the sky turn into deep oranges, pinks and purples. He would like if Thorin would join them as well but doesn’t think that he would want to if Gandalf is there. He’ll simply have to drag Thorin out tomorrow night for another smoke.

Gandalf’s voice trails off after a while until they sit in companionable silence. “I’m surprised at you, Bilbo Baggins,” he breaks it eventually, not looking at Bilbo.

He blinks dazedly a few times, looking up at Gandalf. “Pardon? Why?” he asks somewhat warily.

“You found your courage in the goblin tunnels, you once told me. I’m surprised you have lost it.”

Bilbo gapes at him. “My… my courage,” he says, remembering the conversation all too well. “Lost it? How exactly have I lost it?”

“Him,” Gandalf says simply.

“Him,” Bilbo repeats faintly, his earlier unease coming back tenfold, the back of his neck prickling and a blush creeping into his cheeks. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Gandalf says, blowing his pipe smoke in the shape of an elven ship. “I think it would be a shame if one day Thorin Oakenshield were to return to Erebor by himself.”

Bilbo continues to gawk at him, not entirely sure if he’s more shocked or offended. “By himself? And you think I should accompany him, is that what you’re saying?”

“Would you not wish to?”

“That is… that is not the point,” Bilbo hisses, glancing back toward Bag End. If Thorin has stayed in the sitting room, he shouldn’t be able to hear their conversation. “Why on earth would I go to Erebor with Thorin?”

Gandalf merely _twinkles_ at him in that irritating way, puffing on his pipe, smoke billowing around his cheeks. “Why on earth wouldn’t you?” he asks in return.

“I… well…!” Bilbo says, faltering. “Well, the Shire, for one! I have an entire life here in the Shire, why would I go back to Erebor? I mean, someday I’d like to _visit_ it but I haven’t even been back home for a year yet! It’s too soon to go on another journey.”

“And yet Thorin made his own journey here,” Gandalf says, “by himself.”

“Yes, well, he had gotten it into his head that he had a life debt to repay. He didn’t come here for… for any other reason,” Bilbo says, not entirely sure he believes himself. It does seem a bit… suspect that Thorin had left the mountain so soon after reclaiming it. But what other reason would he have to come to the Shire so quickly, if not for his debt?

Gandalf remains silent for a while, simply gazing at Bilbo. “I think that you would make for a welcome addition in the mountain, my dear fellow,” he says, smiling kindly. “And I think Thorin would agree with me.” His lips twist. “Just this once.”

Bilbo sighs heavily, leaning back against the bench, looking out over the Shire. “We’re friends, Gandalf,” he says, his voice small. “Only friends.”

“If you think Thorin Oakenshield traveled across Middle Earth to simply remain friends with you, then you disappoint me,” Gandalf says sternly and with all the honesty he usually doesn’t bother with.

Bilbo looks at him, narrowing his eyes, his heart racing rapidly. “He would have said something,” he whispers, his fingertips tingling, his breathing somewhat erratic. His palms are sweaty and he knows that if he were to stand his knees would hardly hold him. “Anything.”

“Just as you have?” Gandalf asks knowingly.

“But… but…” Bilbo trails off, furrowing his brow, his pipe forgotten in his hand. Gandalf lets him stew, perhaps hoping that he’ll figure things out on his own.

Thorin has emphasized their friendship so very much, nothing more, and Bilbo fights the hope that is crawling its way through his insides, filling his blood with air as it goes. The gifts, the meals, their closeness, how much it had all meant to Bilbo, all the time… to think that Thorin might feel the same way is both terrifying and exhilarating. Gandalf has been wrong before, though… and so very right most of the time.

“I think I shall head on to Bree tonight,” Gandalf announces suddenly, whisking his pipe away and standing from the bench in a whirl of grey robes.

Bilbo opens his mouth in surprise, standing quickly, his knees indeed weak. He grips the back of the bench, staring helplessly at Gandalf. “What if you’re wrong?” he asks quietly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know either way?” Gandalf asks, smiling. “Courage, Bilbo. Have courage, my dear friend, and there is nothing that shall get in your way. Goodbye, until we meet again.”

“Goodbye,” Bilbo whispers, watching as Gandalf leaves the garden and begins his way down the quickly darkening path.

Bilbo stands there for a long while, his insides churning. He feels sick with nerves and something else, something far more pleasant warming his heart. He looks at Bag End, breathing shallowly, before he turns, running out of his garden and down the lane.

He runs as quickly as he can, thinking he can waste no more time, that he’s been a fool for wasting it for this long. He heads down to the Bywater Pool, where there is a large patch of forget-me-nots that grow, and with much care, picks a bouquet of them, tying them with a reed. He had said he would find a gift for Thorin and he can think of nothing better to give him, nothing more direct.

He makes his way quickly back toward Bag End, striding through his gate and straight to the front door, faltering on the steps.

What if Gandalf truly is wrong? What if Bilbo gives the flowers to Thorin and is rejected? No doubt it would be a kind rejection but it would destroy Bilbo all the same. He loves Thorin, feels it in every breath that he takes, and is terrified that it might go wrong.

He reaches for the doorknob but the door swings open first and Thorin stands there, looking glorious in the last remnants of sunlight, everything about him radiating warmth.

Thorin pauses, blinking at Bilbo, glancing down at the flowers in his hand. “For the table?” he asks.

“For you,” Bilbo says, in a croaking voice. He clears his throat. “For you,” he says with more strength, extending the flowers to Thorin.

Thorin takes the flowers cautiously, lifting them and sniffing, his eyes on Bilbo. “What is the occasion?”

“Because I…” he trails off, wondering what his answer is. _Because I love you, because I think I always have, and because I don’t want to waste anymore time, I want to be brave and have courage, I want us to spend the rest of our days together, here or in Erebor, because you mean everything to me._

“Because you deserve them,” he finishes lamely, tears immediately prickling in his eyes. It’s the truth but it’s not enough and he feels like a dreadful coward.

“Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs, reaching out slowly, his fingers lifting to Bilbo’s hair. He tucks a curl of it behind his ear. “What is wrong? What are you not telling me?”

Trust Thorin to be clairvoyant at all the wrong moments.

Bilbo sniffs, looking Thorin in the eye. _Courage._ “You deserve them,” he says hoarsely. “For everything you’ve done for me. For being my… my friend, the best company in all the world. For helping me with my groceries and the cooking and my chores. For being a companion, for going to tea with me and all of my nosey relatives, for enduring their comments. For traveling across Middle Earth to repay a debt you’ll never repay because there is nothing more I want from you than just… you.” He breathes out shakily. “The flowers are because I care for you a great deal and I’m not going to run from it anymore. The flowers are because…”

Thorin’s eyes are shining as he watches Bilbo and he seems to have been holding his breath if his long, shaky sigh is of any indication. “Because?” he asks softly.

“Because I love you, I love you, I love you,” Bilbo says, his heart pounding, and lowers his eyes, not wishing to see the rejection before it comes.

The flowers drop to the ground next to Thorin’s boot, which Bilbo stares at as it steps closer to him. Thorin’s hands lift and soon they are cupping Bilbo’s cheeks, lifting his head so he is forced to look into Thorin’s ever so blue eyes, which are infinitely soft, full of affection and very obviously to Bilbo’s suddenly clear mind, love.

“My Bilbo,” Thorin murmurs. He leans in and presses the softest kiss to Bilbo’s lips, pulling back just so, as if he is still seeking permission.

Bilbo grasps Thorin’s wrists, leaning up on his toes and kissing Thorin with all of the desperation he has felt in the last month or so. With all of the love he can muster.

Thorin gasps lightly against Bilbo’s lips but his arms slide down to wrap firmly around his waist, pulling Bilbo flush against his solid body, kissing him passionately and for all the world to see.

Bilbo couldn’t care less about propriety but he still wonders if any of his neighbors will be sending him new invitations for tea come the morrow. He kisses Thorin back fiercely, running his fingers through his long, soft hair, clutching his shoulders, and grazing his cheeks with his fingertips.

They pull back from each other reluctantly, breathing deeply, and simply gaze at one another in the coming moonlight.

“So you might feel the same way,” Bilbo peeps.

Thorin chuckles, nudging his forehead against Bilbo’s. “I have for a long time,” he admits quietly. “For too long. I should have said something sooner, Bilbo… forgive me for my cowardice. You deserved to know long ago how much I cherish you.”

Bilbo blushes, clutching Thorin’s shirt gently in his hands. “How long?” he asks, almost dreading the answer, whether it be for a long time or a short while.

“…long,” Thorin says hesitantly. “I have loved you since you jumped in front of an orc to save me from losing my head.”

Bilbo feels his own head swim at that and slumps against Thorin’s chest, resting his head on his shoulder. “That long,” he says faintly. “But Thorin… why have you never said something?”

“I have, Bilbo, in many ways,” Thorin says, strained, “But not in the one I should have. I should have told you from the beginning, when I gave you my grandmother’s ring. It is also used in courtship in Erebor.”

“Courtship,” Bilbo say, very keen on repeating whatever Thorin has to say, seeing as how his own words are failing him. He looks at Thorin, who is blushing nicely and looking very apprehensive. “Well, I suppose we are fools for each other.” He smiles crookedly.

Thorin sighs in relief. “I suppose we are,” he says, gently disentangling himself. “Perhaps we should speak more inside.”

Bilbo nods and, simply because he can, he takes Thorin’s hand in his. The broad smile Thorin grants him, still a bit shy, is enough to set his heart racing again. Thorin picks up the flowers and they go back inside Bag End, heading into the kitchen to fill a vase with water. They move gingerly around each other, unable to stop touching in some way, and eventually Thorin embraces Bilbo again, their lips meeting for a warm kiss.

“What are we going to do?” Bilbo asks against Thorin’s lips.

“Do we care right now?” Thorin asks breathlessly, clearly of one mind.

Bilbo laughs, darting away from his next attempt at a kiss. “We care very much right now, Thorin,” he says, stepping back, only keeping hold of Thorin’s hands. “Forgive me, but… it’s all rather important. I’d rather not… not get my heart broken, you see.”

Thorin softens, squeezing Bilbo’s hands and gazing tenderly down at him. “You will not,” he promises. “For I will stay with you, wherever you should wish. In Erebor, at my side… or in the Shire, by yours.”  
  
Bilbo is feeling a bit flustered. “Goodness,” he sighs. “I can’t… I can’t possibly take you from Erebor, Thorin.”

“You are not taking me from anything,” Thorin says, letting go of Bilbo’s hand to go about making tea. “Let us get comfortable.”

When the tea is ready, they take a steaming pot back out into the sitting room, settling in their armchairs, which is too far apart, to Bilbo’s mind. But he takes his tea and leans back, watching Thorin as he does the same.

“Balin had me sign papers for an… arrangement before I left Erebor,” Thorin says hesitantly.

Bilbo nods for Thorin to go on.

“If I were to not be back in Erebor in thirteen months’ time, I would forfeit my claim on the crown to Fili.”

Bilbo gapes at him. “You’ve been planning this? For me to go with you?”

Thorin blushes. “I was going to ask you eventually. I was also prepared for you to say no,” he grouses. “I have to return to Erebor someday.”

Sipping his tea, Bilbo nods slowly. “Of course, Thorin. You are its king, I would expect nothing less,” he says mildly, his stomach roiling, knowing where this conversation is headed. “Why thirteen months?”

“Enough time to court you, should you have wished it, and it is a lucky number,” Thorin says, not quite meeting Bilbo’s eye. “Balin’s idea. He knew that I would likely have trouble expressing myself.”

“I don’t think you did,” Bilbo says, a bit lightheaded. “I think I was simply too blind to see it. You’ve done a very good job of courting me according to the Shire’s standards. I thought you were being friendly.”

“I dared not to hope what the flowers meant,” Thorin admits quietly, looking at Bilbo. He smiles. “Now that I know what is truly important to hobbits.”

“You gave me flowers on the road,” Bilbo says, remembering how overjoyed he was to receive them. “They meant a variety of different things but it was still the way to a hobbit’s heart.”

Thorin reaches for Bilbo and he reaches back, clasping their hands between themselves.

“I would have meant it then,” Thorin says. “I did still.”

Bilbo smiles, squeezing Thorin’s hand, butterflies swarming in his stomach. “Erebor?” he prods.

“Ah,” Thorin says, looking toward the empty fireplace. “If I am to remain in the Shire, I will no longer be its king. If we are to travel back together… you would be my consort. I would marry you, Bilbo.”

He giggles, unable to help it. “Quite a proposal,” he says dryly. When Thorin begins to look sheepish, he hastily waves his hand. “Something to think about another time.” Perhaps when this is not all so very brand new. “Would the people of Erebor even accept me? I’m… I’m a hobbit.”

“They are well aware of what you are,” Thorin says quickly. “And you are something of a hero in Erebor. Your deeds on the quest have been recited at great length during ceremonies.” At Bilbo’s mildly horrified look, Thorin turns smug. “My people should know of the very person responsible for returning Erebor to them.”

Bilbo blushes, grumbling a bit. “I only did what was right, maybe even foolish.”

“Which makes you a hero,” Thorin says with conviction. “You did what no one else could and no one blames you for that, least of all me. There might have been some whispers but I have quelled them. You will be given a hero’s welcome, should you return to the mountain.”

“I sincerely hope not,” Bilbo peeps, already overwhelmed at the idea of what Thorin is saying. “You don’t wish to abdicate, do you?”

Thorin hesitates, opening his mouth and closing it again. He lets out a ragged sigh. “Some part of me does,” he says. “I have enjoyed my time here greatly, Bilbo. It has been a welcome experience compared to the rest of my long life. The idea of staying with you here, forever… it has its benefits. But I also dreamed of reclaiming Erebor for over a century.”

Bilbo nods slowly in understanding. “And you did it,” he says. “I don’t want to take that away from you, no matter what you say.” He swallows. “I did once entertain the thought of staying in Erebor but I was afraid that I would only get to love you from afar there and that it would make me miserable,” he admits in a rush, embarrassed.

Thorin looks touched. “Bilbo,” he says fondly, running his thumb along Bilbo’s hand. “We would have remained fools there for a long time, I am sure of it.”

“Yes, more than likely,” Bilbo says with a chuckle. “Dwalin seemed to think you were planning something dramatic before I left.”

Groaning, Thorin scrubs his hand over his forehead. “Aye, he was not pleased with me for a long time,” he says. “I did not tell him of my plans until after Balin and I had discussed it. I knew he would try to persuade me to stay in Erebor for a while longer before I set off. He thinks I left too quickly.”

“Did you?” Bilbo asks hurriedly.

“Perhaps in the eyes of some of my people, aye. But they will forgive me should I bring back the hero of Erebor on my arm.”

Bilbo flushes, gulping his tea, no matter how hot it is. “Oh dear,” he says, sighing. “I’ll be far more famous there than I am here.”

“But just as well loved by all,” Thorin murmurs, smiling warmly. “I would be honored if you chose to be by my side there, Bilbo, but there is no rush to decide tonight. I will follow wherever you choose to go. You are worth more to me than any mountain in the world.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo says, a bit strained and flattered all the same. “You fought so very hard for that mountain.”

“And I will be glad to be its king still, if that is where our path takes us. I will not be without you, Bilbo, not when I finally have you.”

“I don’t want to be without you, Thorin,” Bilbo says, setting his teacup aside. He stands tentatively, edging closer to Thorin, who looks utterly enraptured by the sight of Bilbo coming nearer, holding out his arms.

Bilbo carefully climbs onto the armchair with Thorin, his need to be close outweighing his need to be entirely comfortable. He rests his hands on Thorin’s chest, peering into his beautifully blue eyes, an overwhelming sense of love and joy coursing through his veins. “What about your debt?” he asks playfully.  
  
“I will continue to be in your debt for as long as it takes me to pay it. If this means I am to always peel your potatoes for you, then so be it.”   
  
Bilbo laughs, patting Thorin’s chest. “Very well, I suppose I’ll learn to live with it,” he says, smiling. “Time, Thorin. All I need is a bit of time.”

 _“Ghivashel,”_ Thorin sighs, wrapping an arm around Bilbo’s waist, taking one of his hands in his much larger one. “You will have all the time you need.”

It only seems natural to come together and kiss after this promise but before their lips meet, Bilbo jerks back, thinking. _“Ghivashel,”_ he repeats. “That doesn’t mean greatest friend, does it?”

Thorin’s cheeks blush a deep red and he looks down at their hands, shaking his head mutely.

“Thorin…”

“Treasure of all treasures. My greatest treasure,” Thorin mumbles, looking impossibly shy, still not meeting Bilbo’s eye.

Bilbo laughs with pure, genuine joy. “Oh, my love, whatever am I going to do with you?”

“Keep me,” Thorin says, looking up finally. “Forever.”

“Forever,” Bilbo agrees, sealing it with a kiss.  
  
——

The next morning, a hobbit and a dwarf set off to the market together, hand in hand, oblivious to the proud, knowing stares from the residents of Hobbiton. They don’t hear the fond laughs, the _oh look at them, finally’s,_ they only have eyes for each other, hearts too full of love to care about anything else.

And Bilbo thinks _Erebor_ when he gazes at Thorin, _my path always leads to Erebor and forever will, as long as he is by my side._

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I have to give a huge thank you to my amazing beta reader [telltalelily](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telltalelily) for being seriously awesome. Her work was absolutely invaluable and she deserves so, so much praise. She's an inspiration!
> 
> And thank you to [angelsallfire](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/angelsallfire) [feistycottoncandy](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/feistycottoncandy) and [luthorchickv2](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/luthorchickv2) for their early words of encouragement!
> 
> Please remember to leave kudos and a comment! Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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